


The Road to Victory

by writing_as_tracey



Series: The Road to Victory [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Except Gerold Hightower fuck him, F/M, Faceless Arya Stark, Fireproof Jon, Gen, Genre: Humor/Crack, Genre: Political, I try to avoid bashing where I can, IF YOU HAVEN'T FIGURED IT OUT YET THIS IS TOTALLY CRACKITY CRACK CRACK, Jon Snow Knows Something, King Jon Snow, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pycelle has a bad day, Rhaegar does NOT have the high ground, Sassy Arya Stark, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Stark wank lets be real, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Time Travel Fix-It, Wargs & Warging (A Song of Ice and Fire), Westeros magic, Work In Progress, genre: action/adventure, no beta we die like men, yas queen Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_as_tracey/pseuds/writing_as_tracey
Summary: Too late in preparing for the Night King and the Long Night, the last stand at Winterfell is close to falling. Bran takes desperate measures to ensure victory, and Jon, Sansa, and Arya pay the price for it in a time unfamiliar to them, on the cusp of another war. [GoT, time-travel fix it]
Relationships: Brandon Stark/Catelyn Tully (future), Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen (minor), Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark (future)
Series: The Road to Victory [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158029
Comments: 330
Kudos: 928





	1. THE ROAD

The Road to Victory

Kneazle / writing-as-tracey

* * *

> “[...] I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many long months of struggle and of suffering. You ask, what is our policy? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea, land and air, with all our might and with all the strength that God can give us; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime. This is our policy. You ask, what is our aim?
> 
> I can answer in one word: It is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory, there is no survival.”
> 
> \- Winston Churchill, 13 May 1940. 
> 
> House of Commons “Blood, toil, tears and sweat” speech

* * *

Bran’s face was cast into shadow, creating a hood around his eyes as he sat still and patient in the Godswood. The flickering torches - spread thinly amongst the trees and illuminating a path from the gate to the Weirwood tree - were few and far in between, leaving the spaces between them filled with an all-consuming inky blackness.

A blackness that seemed to move and warp on its own, making Theon Greyjoy swallow thickly as his eyes darted nervously around the sacred space. He shifted nervously, his leathers rubbing against each other in a soft whisper that cut through the stillness of the evening air.

 _It_ is _evening, isn’t it?_ he thought with a frown, his hand coming to rest on the dagger at his waist. 

He wrapped his fingers around it as he thought back to the scrambled preparations earlier: how scouts had seen the slow, determined amble of dead as they began to crest hills and emerge silently from wooded groves, their eerie blue eyes the only light against the creeping darkness as clouds blocked the sun, snow blocked the landscape, and darkness descended on the North and Westeros.

Then it had been mad, with Daenerys and Jon taking to the skies on their dragons; Lannister, Brienne, and the Wildlings had moved to be the front line once the Unsullied and Dothraki took the enemy outside Winterfell’s walls; and Arya, Davos, Theon, and Sansa were to remain inside the castle, protected only by several curtain walls and a maze of boobytrapped corridors that would hopefully slow the dead down.

Slow. Not stop - because there would be no stopping them until the Night King was eradicated. And Theon wasn’t sure who was going to deliver that fatal blow when his job was to protect Bran Stark, whose eyes were milky while as his blank, placid face with his chin tilted up fixated on the weeping face carved into the Weirwood tree. He was lost somewhere in time - or perhaps space, Theon was never sure and didn’t quite understand what happened to make the young Stark the Three-Eyed Raven particularly - leaving him vulnerable to an enemy who was coming only for him.

And then, faintly, a sound caught Theon’s attention and he turned his head toward it, squinting in the darkness.

He sucked in cold air harshly as he recognized it: cries. Cries of pain, war cries, cries for backup. The fight was now within Winterfell’s walls.

Lights flickered beyond the Godswood, breaking the darkness of the wooded area as rooms within Winterfell lit up, a fire beginning in one tower as it slowly expanded and crept upward, smoke spiralling into the black sky. Theon could vaguely hear the roar of the flame and the crackle of wood as it splintered within the tower, but the flames themselves were a beacon of light that illuminated the space around.

A large shadow swooped through the clouds and smoke, too fast to make out except for the distant roar and accompanying shake of the earth. A further, distant roar responded, and then another - but a cry of pain.

“It’s not going well.”

Theon jumped, his heart furiously thundering as he spun to face Bran. 

His eyes were no longer milky white, but dark and hooded. His facial expressions were still blank, but he was facing Theon and not the Weirwood tree anymore, despite not moving his hands from their folded place on top of the thick woolen blankets that covered his legs in the wheelchair constructed for him.

“What’s happened?” asked Theon, through a suddenly dry mouth.

“Jon’s dragon is dead,” replied Bran, his voice monotone. “He cut its head off with the help of some Wildlings, but the courtyards are being overrun with giants now.”

For a strange, wild moment, Theon imagined Jon’s headless dragon getting to its undead feet and chasing after him, only to squash him; but the image was quickly dispelled as Bran continued to speak.

“Please go find Sansa and Arya, Theon. Bring them here. Jon is already on his way.”

Theon paused. “I’m supposed to remain with you--”

“I will be fine while you are gone. You won’t be long,” the younger teen assured him, although his assurances fell as flat as his voice.

Theon grimaced, but nodded and took a hesitant step forward; then he took another step, and another until he was marching purposefully through the dark of the Godswood and through the gate, keeping his back along the rough stone so nothing would sneak up behind him.

He found Sansa first, near the kitchens, shouting orders and directions for those to gather what weapons they could - knives and pots and iron pokers - and ordering others to boil water for wounds and poultices to be mixed with the mortar and pestle.

She paused only when she saw him. “Theon?”

“Bran wants you in the Godswood,” he said, dipping his head briefly in acknowledgment. 

Her thin red eyebrows furrowed, but she nodded slowly. “Gyllis? Take over for me.”

“Yes, milady,” a portly, worn-looking with flyaway grey hair replied, her voice already hoarse and weary. She curtseyed once and then turned away, taking up Sansa’s position as Theon gently took her arm and guided her from the warm space.

“How bad is it?” Sansa murmured as they stepped outside.

“Bad. Can’t you hear?” he replied just as quietly, and they both stopped to listen as the screams and cries grew louder. The burning tower - to the far southeast of them, one of the parts of Winterfell near the main gate, drew their attention.

“Do you know who set it?” she asked.

Theon shook his head. “I’ve just been sent to find Arya next. Bran said Jon was on his way to the Godswood.”

“Why?” asked Sansa, following Theon as they inched down a dark hallway, Theon’s dagger held tight in a white-knuckle grip. “Oh. His dragon?”

“Dead.”

“Any news from the others?”

“Nothing yet. Just that we’re not doing well.”

Theon glanced back long enough as they edged around a sharp L-corner to see Sansa’s face. It was long, in Stark fashion, but tinged grey and there was a tight, pinched pull at her eyes. It was enough that Theon took her hands in his. “It’ll be okay. Bran has a plan.”

Sansa offered Theon a small, wobbly smile, but it never reached her eyes. They both knew how the night was going to end.

They found Arya by accident as they exited Winterfell, near the Godswood gate. She launched herself from above, from one of the covered wooden catwalks that joined two stone buildings, just as a blue-eyed wight burst from the grainery door on their left.

Sansa sucked in air sharply and Theon bent his knees, readying his dagger to slash at the wight but it was Arya who landed heavily on it and hacked it quickly with precise slashes of her thin sword.

Body parts fell to the frozen dirt, the limbs still twitching and one of the hands trying to gain purchase against the slick ground to pull itself forward toward them.

With a scowl of disgust, Theon reached for the nearest torch, tucked into a metal sconce, and thrust it at the nearest limb, watching dispassionately as it burst into flame.

The head, still on the torso of the wight, opened its mouth and let out a high-pitched, unearthly wail.

“Shut up,” muttered Theon, poking his torch at the other body parts, beginning with the torso and head.

“There’ll be more coming soon,” warned Arya, nearly blending in with the wall and shadows around them.

“Theon said Bran is asking for us,” replied Sansa instead, drawing her cloak tighter around her body. It was the brightest part of her outfit, a dull Stark grey against the black of her leather and cloth dress.

“Then let’s go. I’ll take point,” said Arya, turning on her heel and moving through the courtyard with ease of working in the dark.

Sansa and Theon scrambled to hurry after her, Theon taking the rear to protect against any wights that were following, but the rest of the journey to the Godswood was quiet. As they passed under the thick wall that separated Winterfell from the Godswood, Arya pulled them aside and then swung the rusted gate shut. It creaked loudly in the still night but latched with a loud _snap_.

“It won’t hold them long,” she said grimly at Sansa’s look. “But it’ll give us a warning that they’re here.”

“Good thinking,” murmured her sister, although there was something resigned in her eyes.

They hurried down the uneven ground to the familiar Weirwood tree and reflection pool, where Jon stood facing Bran, his back to the pool, as he ran his hands agitatedly through his curls.

“--me anything of what’s to happen?” he demanded as they approached.

“What’s going on?” asked Sansa, her voice the slightest bit sharp.

Bran’s dark eyes flicked toward his remaining siblings and Theon, who brought up the rear until he stood at Bran’s side once more.

“We’re all here like you asked,” continued Arya, her mouth pulling down into a frown. She crossed her arms. “We should be out there, fighting. What did you need of us, Bran?”

Sansa moved to stand at Jon’s side, touching his arm lightly. Jon dropped his scowl at the touch, glancing at his sister-cousin before sighing. “He wouldn’t say anything until you arrived.”

“Well?” prompted Sansa after a long, pointed silence.

Bran turned his head back to face the weeping tree and closed his eyes. 

Something clenched tight in Arya’s chest at the expression and she slowly dropped her arms. “Bran…?”

“It was too little, too late,” he finally said, the barest hint of something in his tone. His voice was tight. “We have lost.”

“No.” The word was wrenched from Jon’s mouth before he consciously realized he spoke. “No - Bran - we’re still fighting - we can continue -”

“Your dragon is gone,” replied Bran, opening his eyes and turning back to face his siblings as they lined up in front of him. “Daenerys is overrun in the skies with the Night King controlling the other. The Unsullied and Dothraki add to the undead, and the main gate has been breached. Winterfell will fall.”

“If Winterfell falls, so does the North,” whispered Sansa through bloodless lips. An aborted move of a hand coming up to flutter at her throat became a clench of her fist at her side.

“And then so does the rest of Westeros,” finished Arya grimly. “Had Cersei actually sent men--”

“We can’t think that way now,” interrupted Jon, his mouth pulled tight. He turned partially to Sansa. “We need to evacuate whomever we can, quickly--”

Sansa nodded, her blue eyes turning vaguely inward as she began to think logistically. “We’ll need to send a message out, send everyone south--”

“It won’t be enough.”

Jon and Sansa fell silent, turning to Bran.

“We have offered our blood, our toil, our tears, and sweat,” began Bran slowly. The expression on his face was surveying, one of the most emotive expressions he had worn since returning to Winterfell. “But it is not enough to ensure victory.”

“Then what must we do, Bran?” demanded Jon, his voice tight and furious. Theon shifted at Bran’s side, uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. “If we cannot flee, if we cannot send those south to continue to fight - must _we_ fight to the end until we become part of the Night King’s army of the undead?”

“No,” said Bran slowly. “Not you.”

That took the wind out of Jon’s sail and he paused long enough to stutter, “What?”

Sensing something off, Arya’s body tensed and she moved her hand slowly to Needle, stroking the hilt like one would stroke their favourite pet.

“What do you mean, Bran?” asked Sansa, a quiver in her voice.

A bang, another, and then a loud creak broke through the silence between the Starks. Theon’s head whipped around to face it, his body turning wholly toward the path to the gate.

“They’ve broken in,” he said, unnecessarily.

“We’re out of time,” said Bran in response, blinking. With each blink, sorrow etched its way onto his face. “Please know: I am only doing this because it is the only road to victory.”

“Do what, Bran?” Sansa’s voice trembled, rising shrilly.

Twin bobbing blue lights began to blink into existence, and Theon withdrew his sword instead, shouting, “ _they’re here, they’re here!_ ”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Bran, closing his eyes as his mouth turned into a frown and his brow furrowed.

Alarmed, Jon took a step toward Bran -- but Bran’s eyes opened, a brilliant white that was more than the Three-Eyed Raven of the Stark warging ability. Red began to bleed toward the center of his eyes, stretching like the limbs of a tree, just as blood began to bead at the corner of his eyes, trickling down his cheeks like tears.

Bran shifted in the chair and then _stood_ , causing Jon to stumble back in alarm as his eyes turned all red. His nose began to bleed, dark red, but the sight of their paralyzed brother standing and then stepping forward stunned the Starks long enough that Jon was unable to defend himself when Bran shoved him - hard - and he tripped over his feet, falling heavily with a loud splash into the reflection pool behind him. Shards of ice from the partially frozen pool broke and splintered onto the ground around them.

Theon leaped forward at the same time, toward the wights as they emerged from around the thick trunks of the godswood, his sword clashing with the first that approached. Arya, torn between helping Theon and Jon, hesitated for just the barest moment.

“Jon!” screamed Sansa, turning to her cousin; she never saw Bran’s hand as he shoved her, too, and she flailed her arms, shrieking as she tipped face-forward into the pool.

 _The Others could take Theon_ , determined Arya, turning to Bran and whipping Needle out from its holster. “Bran - why--”

“It’s the only way,” said Bran, but there was something off, different from his voice. He took another step forward and Arya slid around him, away from the wights and Theon, who was screaming something, just noise, not words as he hacked away. She kept her eyes on Bran as she took a step back.

Bran didn’t move, just watched her. “You need to hurry.”

“ _I_ need to hurry?” repeated Arya, snorting as she tossed her head. 

“I can’t keep them in between forever,” answered Bran, something tense in his voice.

Arya blinked. “Inbetween?”

But Bran made a move toward her, almost a puff of his chest as his tall, thin form loomed, and Arya jumped back to keep the distance between them. Only when she landed, it was on the splintered ice Jon’s fall into the reflection pool scattered, and she slipped.

“Bran!” cried Arya, her arms wheeling up as she felt gravity pull her down. She went to twist her body, to move and land to the side of the pool, but something was wrong and she couldn’t move in any direction but down, down toward the water…

“Whatever you do--” Arya heard Bran’s voice say, although his mouth didn’t move “--No matter how afraid you are, you must keep going. This is the only way we survive. The only way we win.”

And then Bran was gone as she hit the freezing water, bits of ice swimming in front of her and blocking the sight of her brother just as the Night King appeared behind him.

 _No!_ Arya tried to scream, but nothing but bubbles emerged as the dark waters swirled around her and dragged her further down.

Her thoughts raced, jumbling together: _the reflection pool isn’t this deep; I’ve swum in it before… Where are Jon and Sansa?... What did Bran mean?..._

She could no longer distinctly see the surface of the reflection pool, but there was something pale and welcoming above her. She began to kick.

At the first kick, she barely moved. The water was thick and determined to keep her, but Arya’s lungs were burning and she had to move up. With the next kick, she moved - and she heard a voice.

_Do you fight for the living?_

It was Jon’s voice, familiar and loud with anger and grit.

She kicked again, and then she heard a low, mean voice mutter: _The Lannisters send their regards._

Mother screamed.

Arya tried to scream back, bubbles escaping her mouth and she kicked harder against the thick water. With each kick, a new voice echoed around her, sometimes murky and distant, and other times, clear and distinct. But each kick brought her closer and closer to the gentle, pale light that filtered above her. 

_The King in the North!_

_I am the dragon! Me! Not you, Dany--_

_In the game of thrones, you either win, or die._

_Sun of my life -- Moon of my heart --_

_We’ve come to a dangerous place._

_A direwolf for each of your children, m’lord. And a runt for Snow._

_Ser Jorah Mormont, you are to be exiled--_

_The Other’s take Balon Greyjoy if he thinks he can defy me by becoming king! There is only one king in Westeros, and that’s_ me: _Robert Baratheon! It’s war!_

_There is no one like us, Jaime..._

_Let it be known that Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul…_

_What did you_ do _, Lannister? You -- You are a_ kingslayer.

_Burn them all! Burn them ALL! If I can’t have King’s Landing, then no one - least of all Tywin Lannister - will!_

_Promise me, Ned. Promise me._

_RHAEGAR, YOU BASTARD! COME AND FIGHT ME, DRAGONSPAWN!_

_I, Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, offer my cloak --_

_You are with child? Then the prophecy will come to pass: there will be three heads to the dragon, Lyanna…_

_Trial by combat, Lord Stark? Very well. My champion -- will be --_ FIRE!

And then, as Arya stretched her hand toward the surface, the water warming the slightest bit, she heard another voice. It was a man’s; clear, sorrowful, and deeply conflicted, and he spoke in a low rumble.

_\--please protect Brandon and those who went with him south. Please, I am in need of your guidance. Please, send me a sign, something to help me. I know to answer the King’s summon means my death, but he is my firstborn and my daughter is missing…_

Arya’s hand broke the surface and then she surged out of the water, clutching tightly at the rock protrusions around the pool with a white-knuckle grip with one hand and Needle in the other as water sluiced off her and she heaved deep gasps of air.

She heard Jon’s pants and saw his black form as he heaved himself further up out of the water and onto the mud and grass, just as on Arya’s other side, Sansa shivered silently with streaks of long red hair plastered to her forehead and neck.

“Well,” began a familiar voice - only it was no longer sorrowful but rather cold. “This is a surprise.”

Arya glanced up, blinking water from her eyes.

A man in black fur slowly rose to his feet from his perch on the edge of a rock at the reflection pool’s side. It was a rock that Arya was familiar with, as her own father often sat on it when he needed time with his thoughts. 

When the man reached his full height, he was imposing. He had a thick black fur cloak around his shoulders and was dressed in grey and black leathers and tunics, while a large Valyarian sword glittered in his grip as he held it aloft from the pool. His eyes were icy shards that flicked from Arya to Sansa and Jon, and his long dark brown hair was pulled back from his face in a manner that reminded Arya vaguely of her Uncle Benjen.

Slowly, Jon brought himself to his feet unsteadily, teetering as he blinked at the man that was a near mirror image, except for the difference in their hair. Somehow, even though the armour and furs must have weighed more than twice Jon’s weight, including Longclaw, he had managed to swim upward as Arya had without losing his sword and weapons.

Sansa dragged herself a bit further onto the ground and then rose, until she was once more the Lady of Winterfell, chin tilted up stubbornly as she smoothed her waterlogged dress and then her hair.

Arya jumped up, ready with Needle to defend her family.

But the man merely glanced back and forth at them. Finally, in his low voice, he growled, “And who are you to emerge from a shallow reflection pool in my Godswood?”

“ _Your_ Godswood?” spat Arya, glaring at the man. “Winterfell is _our_ home! This Godswood is _ours_!”

“Arya…” whispered Sansa suddenly, her voice low and cautious.

The man blinked. “Arya? My… my mother’s mother was Arya Flint.” He suddenly stared hard at her and then Jon, his grey eyes flickering back to Sansa every so often.

Sansa instead sucked in a breath, her entire form freezing.

The man put his sword down slowly, resting it against the rock he was previously sitting on. Then he put his hands out and took a step forward.

Arya wanted to shuffle back, but the last time she did she ended up in the pool and wanted to avoid that, so instead, she stood her ground, baring her teeth at the man.

He paused, his entire face softening as he looked at her.

“Lower your weapon, child,” he demanded, although it was a command without any harsh edges. “You will come to no harm here.”

“How can we trust that?” asked Jon, wariness in not just his voice, but his body as he inched toward Arya and Sansa and his hand twitched back, toward his scabbard.

“We are family,” the man said.

“Oh?” snapped Arya. “Just who are you, then?”

The man stared down at her for a long, long moment, and then said, “I am Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” The man paused, hesitating and almost frowning, but he then pushed forward. “And I believe you are either my grandchildren or some other close relation.”

With that, Arya’s jaw dropped in shock, and so did Needle as it fell from her hand.

* * *

[...]


	2. SNOW, pt 1

The Road to Victory

* * *

SNOW, pt 1

* * *

The man - their grandfather - ushered them through the Godswood in the predawn light that just edged over Winterfell’s ramparts, stretching shadows into long, twisted things. The halls were quiet, the courtyards empty and Jon, Sansa, and Arya did their best to not stop and gape at Winterfell during its heyday.

Rickard constantly turned back, quietly murmuring to them to continue moving until they entered his solar - their father’s solar - and found themselves sitting in comfortable chairs before the fireplace as the heat steamed the water off them.

“I am sorry I cannot offer you tea,” he began, pushing instead heavy cups of some sort of mead toward them, from a decanter on a sideboard. “But this should help warm you up.”

Sansa was the only one who took it with thanks, while both Jon and Arya took it, stared at the cup, and then put it down without tasting the liquid sloshing inside. Rickard took no offense, instead of sitting behind his desk and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth as his icy grey eyes flicked from one Stark to another.

“You have travelled through time,” he finally said, once the silence stretched long.

Jon violently flinched.

“But from how far in the future…” the Stark trailed off, but his eyes landed on Sansa. “You _must_ only be a generation away - with that hair, and Brandon’s betrothal - your mother must be Catelyn Tully.”

Slowly, Sansa inclined her head. 

Rickard breathed, a long exhale as he closed his eyes. “Then going to King’s Landing is the right thing. I will demand trial by combat and save my heir and return him to Winterfell.”

Arya snorted, and Rickard’s eyes shot open, a heavy frown pulling at his mouth. The girl caught his eyes and shook her head. “That won’t work.”

Rickard’s brow furrowed.

Sansa leaned a bit forward and tentatively began, “My father was not Brandon Stark, Lord Rickard.”

The man’s eyes widened as he slowly came to the realization and then he slumped, heavily, in his seat. His eyes, once so icy and sharp, were dull. “I see…”

“What year is it?” asked Jon, cutting through the tension. “If you’re planning on going to King’s Landing to get Uncle Brandon, then Harrenhal has already happened, has it not? And Ly-- Lyanna has already left with Rhaegar?”

Rickard’s head snapped up. “ _Left_?”

“Jon,” hissed Sansa, twisting in her seat to shift a glare at her brother-cousin. Even Arya turned, in the seat between the two, to thump him on the upper arm. “Shut up!”

Jon winced at the tiny, hard hit and resisted bringing his hand up to rub at his arm.

“Left?” repeated Rickard, his voice rising in pitch sharply. “You imply that she left _willingly_ and was _not_ taken by the Prince?”

Jon winced. “It’s… it’s a rather delicate situation, to be fair…”

Sansa sighed, loudly.

Rickard’s ire left him, and he found himself utterly baffled by these grandchildren of his, looking from one to another. As the fire warmed them, he took a moment to survey them with a Lord’s eye, rather than the familial, that he had been previously. The fact that they had not recognized him told him that he was long gone by the time they were born and that whomever their father had been, they had been kind and loving toward them.

But now -- he saw the Valyrian steel on the oldest’s back. While curls like his were common Stark features, there was something in his face that was different and unique enough to the sisters that perhaps they weren’t as closely related as Rickard first though. But his clothes! The young man was dressed for war in the most mishmash of clothing: chainmail, armour, boiled leather arm braces, and steel greaves, the dirt and blood even the water couldn’t clean from his face and neck… whatever had happened in the future, wherever they had come from… it was not peaceful and Rickard’s heart clenched.

The eldest girl was no doubt closely related to the Tullys, which determined that she must have been Brandon and Catelyn’s -- with her long, auburn hair and Tully blue eyes; but her long face was all Stark, as was her strong chin and willowy height. She was the perfect Southron lady, with her manners and bearing, but what she wore was in contradiction to that. She, too, was dressed in Stark colours of grey and black, with her grey fur-lined cloak and the black, boiled leather armour that covered her chest and arms. Her face was thin and there were smudges under her eyes, signalling long, restless nights and worries.

But the youngest -- oh, how Rickard recognized that feral tilt to her chin, the flash of defiance in her eyes, and the snarl on her pulled-back lips. The youngest girl, Arya, had the wolf’s blood in her. She too wore leather armour, but also trousers tucked into boots, and Rickard’s sharp eyes could spot the numerous pockets and sheaths that hid numerous blades and other tricks the girl coveted. She was a warrior, and Rickard had no trouble thinking that Brandon would equip a daughter of his with good, castle-forged steel, or encourage her to be taught the blade! But -- would Ned?

But when the redhead had said that Brandon was not her father… he knew then that he would fail in King’s Landing. _Of course, I would,_ he thought bitterly. When would Aerys honour or combat fairly? It left a sour taste in his mouth, knowing that he was dead. That Brandon was -- _would be?_ \-- dead.

Ned would step up as Lord of Winterfell. And Jon Arryn -- for all that he was a good friend to Rickard -- had filled Ned’s head with House Arryn’s words rather than their own and that the boy was more Southron than he thought. _As High as Honour, ha!_ He would be unprepared for leading the way that Rickard had trained Brandon.

He wanted to ask: _Was Ned a good father to you? What he a good, strong leader for the North? How did he handle the Boltons? Was the North prosperous, did the White Harbour bring more bounty to us? How many Wildling attacks have there been, and have the northernmost Houses struggled? ... how much have_ you _struggled, my grandchildren?_

And the struggle was apparent in these children: the eldest girl whom he knew now to be Ned and Catelyn’s. And with a shrewd eye, he could spot similar features in the younger girl’s lithe body. They were sisters, but the boy…

A knock on his solar startled Rickard from his thoughts, although none of his uninvited guests jumped.

“Lord Stark?”

Rickard stood and strode to the door, opening it the merest slit and glared out at the Maester. “What is it, Walys?”

“My Lord, are you breaking your fast with Benjen this morn? There are also many ravens for you to attend should you decide to depart…” the reedy voice on the other end of the door inquired.

“Not today, Walys,” instructed Rickard, his voice firm as he looked at the man through the crack. “I am not to be disturbed for any reason.”

“Very well, my Lord.”

Rickard shut the door firmly and latched it, turning back to the three Starks in his solar, each watching him with careful eyes.

“I cannot keep you locked up here,” he finally sighed, returning slowly to his desk but standing beside it instead of sitting. “It is best that you are announced to the household.” His eyes flicked over the two girls. “I realize you are both sisters, but your red hair is too unique for us to confidently call you a Stark.”

Something bitter was on the girl’s face before it washed away. She nodded demurely, folding her hands in her lap, her cup discarded earlier. “I understand.”

“What are your names?” Rickard finally asked. He jerked his chin at the only one he knew. “I know you are Arya. What are you called?”

“Sansa, Lord Stark,” the redhead chirped.

“Jon,” retorted the eldest, shortly.

“Jon and Arya are cousins from my wife’s side,” said Rickard, eyes firm on them. “You look Northern enough to pass as Starks from my great-uncle’s side. You, Sansa, are too unique for the North. We don’t have your looks.”

“Kissed by fire, she is,” grinned Jon, which made him look entirely younger and softened the dour look on him. 

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“My sister married into House Royce,” continued Rickard, ignoring the byplay. “You are a daughter of hers. She had three and all married South -- the Lords here will not think differently if there was a miscount.”

Sansa nodded. “I know House Royce, my Lord.”

Rickard started, momentarily. “You do?”

She did not add more to that, but it was enough that Rickard stared at her, hard, for a moment, before turning away. He stood by his solar window, overlooking the Godswood. Taking a deep breath, he wondered what to do next: his son was still in King’s Landing, a prisoner, and his daughter was missing, although by the sound of what Jon said, a willing captive. 

He had prayed for help from the gods, and his three grandchildren appeared dripping wet and dressed for war. He could read the signs, he knew what it meant. With that in mind, he clasped his hands behind his back and turned on his heel to face his family, with a grim visage.

“I -- when you emerged from the reflection pool -- I was asking for help,” he began, haltingly. He was a _Lord_ , a _Stark_ , and Starks did not beg. “I believe the gods delivered you to me. To help me in what to do, to ensure House Stark does not fall.”

The three shared glances, unreadable ones. Arya slit her eyes and crossed her arms, muttering, “It’s a fucking long list.”

Rickard bristled at the coarse language coming from her mouth, but the tightening of Sansa’s eyes and Jon’s frown made him pause, and slowly, he reached for his desk. “What do you mean?”

“Other than our other brother, Bran, we’re all that’s left of House Stark,” replied Sansa, her voice matter-of-fact.

“And Bran sacrificed his life for ours,” added Arya, making Jon and Sansa glance at her.

Jon’s voice was low when he asked, “What do you mean?”

“I was the last in the pool,” answered Arya, “And I saw the Night King behind him just before I sank.”

Sansa’s eyes closed and Jon turned his head away, pained.

Rickard, however, blurted out, “The Night King?” even as his hand fumbled for purchase on his desk and he slipped, all but collapsing into his chair. “Surely not. Surely! The Others and wights of the Long Night are stories.”

“I wish that were true,” sighed Jon, running a hand through his curly hair. “But sadly, they’re real. We’ve been fighting them for a year now, on and off at different locations. The Wall broke and the Night’s Watch defeated. We were… we were making a last stand at Winterfell when Bran told us it was over and we lost.”

“You think of Aerys’ war,” began Sansa, carefully, “You think of Robert’s Rebellion as we will know it, and that it is the war you should be concerned about. It is _not_. We fight a greater war, for all the people of Westeros. A war for the living.”

“But--” Rickard broke off, snapping his mouth shut. “Our plan -- to consolidate power amongst us so that we’d have alliances…”

“Oh?” asked Sansa, a curious lilt to her voice.

“Brandon’s betrothal to Catelyn Tully would ensure the North and the Riverlands were tied,” began Rickard, “And fostering Ned and Robert Baratheon with Jon Arryn in the Vale meant they’d be close with Jon’s heirs; even then betrothing Lyanna and Robert would bring the Stormlands and the North together.”

“So, you would have the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the Stormlands,” stated Sansa calmly, although there was a tinge of amusement to her voice now. “To what purpose? There are Valeman and Storm lords who are Targaryen supporters. Surely you weren’t thinking of disposing of the dragons.”

“Of course not!” snapped Rickard. “It was to consolidate power behind Rhaegar. Whent convinced his brother to host the tournament at Harrenhal so Rhaegar could suss out who was loyal to him and who was loyal to his father. We wanted to call a Great Council.”

Jon groaned, burying his head in his hands.

“And _then_ overthrow Aerys?” finished Arya with a snort, adding her voice to Jon’s groan. “I’m sure that would’ve gone well.”

Rickard glowered. “It would--”

“Not,” interrupted Sansa coolly. “That would never have worked. Aerys is too stubborn, too insane. He would never have given up power willingly and we’d be right where we are now, on the cusp of war. Only, perhaps, with different players. And, for all the weight you wish to throw behind Rhaegar, he’s not a good choice either, as you now know.”

“You said Lya was willing!” barked Rickard, glaring hotly at the three.

Sansa and Arya turned to Jon, who squirmed under the weight of their eyes. “They were married, I know that much. But that doesn’t mean that either of them were _smart_ …”

“Prophecies,” muttered Arya. “Fucking prophecies.”

 _I don’t know what is happening,_ thought Rickard, off-balance, and his heart thundering in his chest. He had no idea what to do - what step to next take. These three grandchildren of his were as maddening as Aerys but without the love for wildfire. 

“I know getting your son and daughter back is important,” began Sansa carefully, her voice modulated so that it was calm. “But when you do get them back -- your eyes must be north. They must be beyond the wall.”

Rickard shook his head. “It’s preposterous. Insane! Others - and wights - and the things beyond --”

“They’re all real,” finished Jon simply. “I’ve fought the Others. My friend killed one. I’ve seen Crastor sacrifice his sons and continue to marry and breed his daughters for more for the Night King’s army. I’ve seen entire villages destroyed--”

“Why would _you_ see them?” sneered Rickard.

Jon levelled a stare at the older Stark that made him want to shrink back, his eyes icy cold. “Because I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, my Lord, and I’ve lived among the Free Folk. I call some of them my friends and brothers, as well.”

“They’re _Wildlings_!”

“They’re better suited for the war to come than you,” jeered Arya with a jut to her lower lip. She turned to Jon and then Sansa. “We’re wasting our time. We can find ways to raise money in Essos and buy free companies to fight for us. I can work for the House again--”

“No!” shouted both Sansa and Jon at once, causing Rickard to blink and rear back. 

“House…?” he began, but the two older siblings began talking over one another.

“Absolutely not, Arya--”

“You shouldn’t go back there, it isn’t right!”

“They did right by me--”

“It’s not whether they did or _not_ , Arya--”

“What is this ‘House’ you are talking about…?”

Arya scowled and crossed his arms. “It would earn us enough coin--”

“You told us before, Arya!” argued Sansa, a tinge of panic on her voice and with the widening of her blue eyes. “You _lost yourself_ to them! You became no one! You live and breathe for them, and not for us.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed. _House - no one - Essos -_ his eyes widened. _The House of Black and White? The Faceless Men?!_ _His granddaughter became a Faceless Man?_

“Lord Stark.” Sansa turned to Rickard, imploringly. “I understand your situation. I, too, have been a prisoner of King’s Landing. I understand your fear and concern for Brandon.”

Rickard’s eyes shut, pained. Morosely, he muttered, “My son will be executed in King’s Landing.”

There were awkward looks between the three of them.

“And my Lyanna?” He grimaced. “What do you know of her future? What does it mean for House Stark and her willingness to be with the Prince?”

Jon opened his mouth but then just as firmly, shut it, with a frustrated look. 

“I asked for help,” the older man reiterated, his voice quiet and thin. His grey eyes swept the three, a slump to him that betrayed his worries and fears. Behind him, through the glass, pale morning light filtered through thick, fluffy clouds, pushing through and breaking the overcast pallor the day began as. “I need help. And the Gods sent you to me.”

It was strange, watching the three look at one another, speaking without words but mere tilts to their heads, the widening of their eyes, a brief flutter of their eyelids or twist to their wrist and flick of their fingers. 

“The focus _must_ be on the Long Night,” began Jon apologetically. 

Rickard nodded, his large hands gripping the edges of his seat, so hard the knuckles turned white. His entire frame was tense, shoulders and back straight. 

“But--” continued Jon, and Rickard’s eyes snapped toward him. “Our knowledge and being here can be helpful. Between myself, Sansa’s skills, and Arya’s abilities, we could… change things. Make things better for the North so that it’s in a better position going forward.”

“Yes,” gasped Rickard, ready to promise anything. The three future Stark grandchildren sighed in relief. “Yes, of course, please--”

“A promise made in front of the Heart Tree, my Lord,” concluded Jon sternly. “We will dedicate ourselves to helping House Stark, so long as House Stark and the North helps _us_ in preparation for the Long Night to come.”

“Shall we go to the Godswood and promise now?” asked the elder Stark.

Sansa waved a hand. “We’ll begin in good faith, as family.”

“Very well,” agreed Rickard. “I realize you will help Brandon and liberate him from King’s Landing -- although I don’t know how -- but how with Lyanna?”

“They’re not together at the moment, I believe,” began Jon cautiously, “Rhaegar and Lyanna… If the timeline matches up.”

“Thank the Gods,” breathed Rickard. _It’ll be easier to take her back, then._

“Although he has left three members of the Kingsguard with her…”

 _No!_ Rickard’s grimace was deeper this time, and it showed as a pained twitch to his mouth. “So, she is to remain with him.”

“Well, actually…” began Arya with a tiny, mischievous grin, but Rickard did not hear her, lost in his thoughts as he spoke out loud.

Jon cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “We can help with that. We can help… with all of it.”

Rickard stared, then demanded, “How?”

“Will you listen to us?” began Sansa, folding her hands in her lap. “Will you listen and trust the words and judgment of children much younger than you?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?”

Sansa’s blue eyes pierced the older man but whatever she saw, it was what she wanted, so she nodded and began: “Ned is in the Vale. Send for him to return to Winterfell.”

Rickard nodded, slowly. “A good idea. I would much rather have my remaining children safely in Winterfell.”

“Jon will join you in travelling to King’s Landing,” continued Sansa confidently. “Even if you demand trial by combat, Aerys will choose fire as his champion. Bring a retinue with you that will travel back north with Ned, securing his place.”

“I can do that,” said Rickard. He glanced at Jon. “But - if you join me in King’s Landing--”

Jon’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Rickard frowned.

“Arya will join you until you arrive in King’s Landing, and will then continue to Lyanna’s side,” said Sansa.

Rickard sat straight. “You know where Lya is?”

“Dorne,” replied Arya, her voice bored. She was twirling her thin rapier around, slowly grinding a hole from its sharp tip through the carpet at her feet. “I’ve never yet been to Dorne, but since I was in Essos, I’ll be used to the heat and the people. I’ll stay by her side until Sansa gives me further instruction, although I already have an idea of what she’s planning.”

Arya sent Sansa a small, wicked smile, and Sansa merely fluttered her eyelashes in return, a tiny smile on her thin lips. 

The redhead turned back to Rickard and turned her tiny smile into a full beam. Despite the warmth in the gesture, it did not fill Rickard with warm and fuzzy feelings.

“Do not worry, grandfather. I have a plan.” Her grin turned the slightest bit feral, and at that moment, Rickard saw the wolf in her - the Stark blood shining strongly through her Tully looks and Southron airs and graces.

“And my plans _always_ work.”

* * *

[TBC...]


	3. FIRE, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is totally pro-Stark and if that isn't your thing, off you trot. I like my happily ever afters.
> 
> This chapter's subtitle is "Jon Snow feels Geralt of Rivia's pain."

FIRE, pt. 1

* * *

The large group left a week later after Jon, Sansa, and Arya’s arrival, consisting of Jon, Arya, Rickard, his castellan - a very, very young, and mutton-chopped Rodrik Cassel - as well as a few other familiar faces from the Stark children's future timeline. 

Before they left, however, Rickard had introduced Jon and Arya as Flint cousins from his mother’s side, and Sansa visiting her mother’s home from House Royce in the Vale. While the servants and long-time staff were suspicious, Rickard’s genial affection toward the three children was not faked, and it was enough for them.

Jon and Arya spent their time with their grandfather or the training yard, baffling the men-at-arms with Jon’s deadly, forceful practice engagements or Arya’s serpentine water dance. Sansa, on the other hand, saw the lack of a female touch in Winterfell and slipped right back into her role of Lady of Winterfell -- or, even, Queen -- which had Rickard initially looking at her in bafflement, which quickly gave way to calculating. On the other hand, the staff was delighted and Rickard found himself with far more free time than he normally had, and spent time with Jon and Arya practicing his swordwork. Just in case.

Sansa saw them off, standing on the steps just outside of Winterfell’s great hall. The look in her eyes was far too dark and feral to be called amusement, despite the lightness to her voice when she said, “Have fun in King’s Landing, Jon.”

Jon rolled his eyes in reply, already having received her hug. Arya was already bouncing in her saddle, eager to be on the road.

The group, all on horseback, thundered out of Winterfell’s main gates, although Sansa’s look lingered in Rickard’s mind. There was clearly more to the story his grandchildren had given him, and he found himself uneasily wondering if he made too hasty his vow, spilled with blood, and witnessed by the heart tree in the Godswood. 

He knew that they wanted to go North, to the Wall, to prepare for the Long Night, but--

Rickard did his best to avoid it, but he nervously bit his lower lip. _Maybe I have given them something else they had been denied in the future_.

He cut a glance at Jon, on one side to him. The young man was staring forward, a frown on his solemn face but his eyes were taking everything in even as thoughts washed over his face, too briefly and quickly to be read. The young man was a schemer, and there was something he was thinking of or planning.

On the young man’s other side, furthest from Rickard, rode Arya, looking for all that she was having the time of her life, hands off the reins at times, and performing tricks by guiding her horse with only her thighs and knees. Her face was split into a wide, expressive grin even as her loose hair blew behind them at the clip they had set. She looked like Lyanna.

While the uneasy feeling did not leave Rickard, he shook his head to dismiss his worries. _They are Starks. They know what is coming, after all. I have nothing to fear_.

* * *

The large contingent of Northerners met a confused Eddard Stark, a visibly fretting Jon Arryn, and a retinue of men from the Eyrie at the Crossroads’ Inn while it was pouring rain.

“I fucking hate this place,” muttered Arya, but loud enough to be heard by Jon and Rickard, the latter who sent her a glare.

Rickard turned back to Ned, beckoning his middle son forward. “Ned - you are to return to Winterfell immediately.”

“Father, I understand, but--” his gray eyes glanced at Jon and Arya, both who shared very similar features to his, confusion clearly writ on his face. “Who are they?”

“Kin of yours,” answered Rickard sharply, neither lying nor telling the truth. “Please, Eddard. Now is not the time. You must return to Winterfell immediately.”

Ned’s brow furrowed and he bit his lip, nodding solemnly. 

“A lady will be there, waiting for you,” continued Rickard, ignoring Ned’s widening eyes and then talking over him, “Another kin. Redheaded. Her name is Lady Sansa -- you must follow any instructions she gives you as though they are coming from me.”

Ned was completely, utterly, confused, but -- Brandon was stuck in King’s Landing. Lyanna was missing. He had seen the letter Aerys sent to Lord Arryn and knew what was at stake for the Stark family. He could be dutiful.

“Yes, father.”

Rickard nodded. “Good man.”

“Lord Stark, surely you know this is folly--” began Jon Arryn, his lips quivering the tiniest in worry. The man was of an age to Rickard, if not slightly older and already going grey at the temples where it shot through his fair blond hair.

“He’ll be fine,” interrupted Jon suddenly, moving his horse to maneuver between his grandfather and his father’s foster-father. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Jon Arryn’s face pulled down into a harsh frown as he glanced over Jon’s form, light eyes flickering back to Rickard. “Lord Stark, I am not sure--”

“It’ll be fine, Jon,” began Rickard, although he sounded tired. “Please,” he stressed further. “Please. Just… trust me.” His eyes flickered to his grandchildren. “Trust us.”

Jon Arryn sighed, but then stepped back.

Ned Stark travelled back north, toward the Neck, with the contingent of Northmen that joined Rickard south. Jon Arryn retreated to the mountainous Eyrie, and Arya gave a jaunty wave as she turned and moved her horse toward the Saltpans.

“Have fun!” she shouted, calling loudly before cantering off.

Rickard glanced at Jon. “Do I want to know?”

Jon shook his head. “You really don’t.”

* * *

Jon had been to King's Landing, once before in his previous life, with Daenerys and her court, trying to persuade Cersei to bring the Lannister armies north to help bolster Winterfell's diminished numbers so that the Night’s King wouldn’t destroy them. That hadn’t gone well, and looking around with barely concealed disgust, Jon was beginning to think that the plan was as good as King’s Landing smelled.

They - his grandfather and he, the only two from the Northern retinue that went south past the Inn - were surrounded on all sides by gold cloaked members of the City Watch, silently being escorted through the dead streets and toward the Red Keep. There was an eeriness to the city, usually so full of life, and it was enough that it made Rickard shift nervously on top of his horse.

The stables were empty save a groomsman, who took their horses with a pale face. The City Watch men slowly dwindled in number, still and silent centennials bookending Jon and Rickard, moving down empty corridors until they approached the throne room, four guards standing outside of it.

The throne room was full, though, if not silent.

“Lord Rickard Stark, Warden of the North,” announced a nervous guard, his voice cracking halfway through. He cringed, bowed to Aerys who sat shrouded in shadow on his iron throne, and then hastily backed through the open door, leaving Rickard to make his way across the marble flooring.

His boots were loud thuds as he kept a steady pace; Jon’s steps behind him were quieter, but just as firm. The weight of the eyes of the court on him kept Rickard’s back straight and his eyes forward, on the King.

Aerys himself was lounging on the throne, bits of dark splotches popping up on his thighs and arms as he shifted and the sharp points of the throne’s swords bit into his skin. His face was a shallow grey colour, his white-blond hair lank and greasy, and his cheeks hollowed. His clothes were ill-fitting and his eyes were far too large for his sunken face, but they were bright, alight with an inner fire of some kind of paranoia.

The man’s purple eyes flicked over to the figure hovering behind Rickard. “Who’s this? I asked for you to come alone. Or are you here to say you’ve replaced your eldest and heir with a bastard?”

He began laughing, which turned into loud hacks.

“This is my squire,” said Rickard, remembering Sansa’s words: _Keep calm. Jon will fight for you. Just ensure that whatever challenge Aerys places before you is one that Jon will accept. He will ensure that you and Brandon walk out of King’s Landing, alive and unharmed. Trust us. Trust him_.

“Your squire, mmm,” the man mocked, rolling his eyes.

Rickard’s jaw tightened. “Where is my son?”

“Standing beside you,” chortled the King, but then, seeing Rickard’s stern frown, he leaned forward and sneered, “In the dungeons, where he should be for coming to _my_ castle, _my_ throne, _demanding_ for _my son_ and heir to be brought to justice!”

“After your son took my daughter!” retorted Rickard loudly.

The crowd shifted and someone bit back a cry - or a sob of terror.

Aerys’s eyes narrowed. Then, coolly, he said, “Your whore of a daughter should be so lucky to have the attention of a dragon.”

Rickard’s hands clenched so tightly his leather gloves creaked and he could hear his teeth grind together. “Have you no honour?”

“Why do I need honour when I have a crown?” The king’s eyes drifted lazily away, peering into the shadows as though only he could spot what lingered there.

“Damnit, Aerys!” barked Rickard, swallowing words that would have him challenge the king. _Sansa,_ he reminded himself, _Remember Sansa’s plan_. “The Targaryen kings of old understood honour and sacrifice. Let us determine single combat for the safe release of my son, his companions, and my squire and I when this is done.”

Aerys eyes fixated on the man with a sharp move. “So confident.”

Rickard kept quiet.

“Alas,” sighed the king, “Many of the companions who foolishly came with your son are dead. I’m afraid that bit of the bargain must be struck.”

“Dead.” Rickard exhaled sharply. “Then, I amend my challenge of combat to such: not just the safe release of all alive Northmen, my son, squire, and I included -- but also the utter removal of your line from the throne.”

This time, the crowd burst into whispers. Aerys surged to his feet in anger, hands catching on the edges of his seat and stripping the flesh on his palms as he did so. He paid no attention to the blood dribbling down his wrists, although from beside the throne, Rickard could see that one of his Kingsguard - Jaime Lannister - glanced at him once, swallowed, and then forced his eyes forward onto Rickard and Jon… although there was something vacant to him.

“You dare!” seethed the king, spitting. “You _dare_!”

“For the crimes you have inflicted on this kingdom! For those who have died wrongly! For those whose lives have been _ruined_ by you and your spawn!” cried Rickard, loudly, over the building clamor in the throne room.

From somewhere, near the dark, recessed corners of the throne room, Aerys’s Hand materialized, muttering low, hurried words to the king, but the Targaryen was incensed, roughly brushing off Wisdom Rossart.

“Single combat, Stark? You want single combat on those terms?” spat Aerys. “Name your champion!”

Rickard did not turn to face his grandson but gestured toward him. “I name my squire, Jon, as champion.”

Aerys stared at the younger man, long and hard, almost uncomprehendingly. Somewhere, someone stifled a laugh.

“Him?” Aerys glanced at Stark, all bluster from his sails gone as he threw his head back and laughed. Jaime Lannister, just behind him, cringed and then hid it quickly. Still laughing, the king sputtered, “V-very well! V-very well, Stark! So be it, on those _exact_ terms. Your safety, your squire, your son, and all other Northmen in the city -- guaranteed and the stepping down of my line should your squire win against my champion.”

Rickard’s jaw flexed and he nodded. “Yes. Those terms.”

“Shall we do this now?” the king asked, moving slowly to sit back on his throne, even as Rossart moved to his elbow and Jaime Lannister moved to the other side of the throne. 

Rickard glanced at Jon, who shrugged. He had nothing else going on, after all. Sansa’s plan made no difference now or later. He knew what was coming.

The Stark turned back to the king and nodded.

“Let’s begin this once your son is brought up from the dungeons, then, Stark.” Aerys’s eyes gleamed when he purred, “As for my champion? My champion is to be _fire._ ”

* * *

Rickard was nearly aside himself in a panic, although Jon could see he was hiding it well. But the man was hovering over him, even as Jon calmly removed much of his armour, letting it carelessly fall to a pile at his feet. There was some kind of perverse pleasure in watching the nearest lord -- by his sigil, a Florent -- cringe every time Jon loudly dropped a piece.

“Jon,” whispered Rickard harshly, his back to the king so Aerys could not see his wide eyes or the tense pull to his cheeks, “Jon, I know what Sansa said, but you cannot win this--”

“It’ll be fine,” reminded Jon, for what felt like the hundredth time. Honestly. Did no one trust Sansa? Besides, Jon knew what he was capable of. It was kind of insulting -- did his grandfather not trust him? 

Jon continued, “Sansa planned for this. We know what we’re doing. Don’t worry.”

“ _Jon--!_ ” hissed Rickard, but then Brandon was brought, hauled, into the throne room. Jon’s uncle was dirty, his clothing torn and smeared with not just dirt and blood, but piss and shit with bits of straw clinging to places on his legs and back. There was a partially healed cut near his temple and a dazed look to him that Jon didn’t like, but could not rectify at the moment.

Rickard took an aborted half-step to his son, but Aerys ordered the Stark heir to be positioned well to the pyre that had been constructed in the middle of the throne room. _All_ members of the court were to be present, to watch the historical moment, Aerys had decried, so the room was filled to the brim with bodies pressing tightly together as they tried to keep far from the pyre itself, creating a visible ring around it.

Even Rhaella, Elia, and the Princess Rheanys and Prince Aegon were present, nearer to the throne and guarded by Jaime Lannister and several City Watch guards.

“Ready, boy?” sneered Aerys, as two members of the City Watch approached.

“Nearly,” replied Jon, his voice even and dry enough that the guards stopped in their approach, hesitant. Jon finished by pulling his shirt off. He then lifted one leg and yanked his boot off, and then hopped to do the same to the other, until he was only in his trousers. He turned to his grandfather, thrusting the clothing garments into his arms. “Hold onto these for me, please.”

“Jon,” said Rickard, pained.

“I’m going to need new trousers after this,” muttered Jon, turning to the guards, and ignoring his grandfather’s bewildered face.

One guard approached with arms up, ready to tie Jon’s hands together with rope. Jon sighed and held his own out, letting the confused guards tie his hands together and then lead him to the pyre, where they pushed his back against the large stake and then tied his bound hands to a single chain protruding from the top to keep him in place.

Aerys watched him suspiciously from his place on the throne. Rossart stepped forward, a hanging lamp in one hand.

The first of the two gold cloaks stepped back, but the second lingered for a moment. 

“Are you sure you are well?” the man muttered. Jon caught his eyes, and the man gestured at his head. “You know - up there?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Perfectly fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The gold cloak stepped back, shaking his head the tiniest as he rejoined his fellow city watch member, and Rossart stepped forward, the lamp tilted.

“Light it!” screamed Aerys, suddenly. “Light him on fire! Let me feel the wrath of a dragon!”

Jon glanced at him tiredly, and called, “Remember, you swore. Safe passage for all Northmen, and the Targaryen line ending with Rhaegar and Viserys on the throne.”

Aerys ignored him - or didn’t hear him - but nodded at Rossart, who tipped the lantern. Fire licked down, flakes falling from the ashes, and collected at Jon’s feet. Then, Rossart tossed the entire lantern in and the familiar _whoosh_ of fire meeting oxygen erupted, swirling in bright orange and yellow around Jon.

He coughed against the smoke, leaning back and resting his head against the wooden stake. He lazily rolled his head enough to see Rickard, jaw clenched, at Brandon’s side. He was kneeling next to his eldest son, holding the young man in his arms. Jon was shocked to realize Brandon was his age -- in his mind, in the stories, he always imagined Uncle Brandon tall, strong, a mix between Benjen’s looks and Ned’s Lordly stature, with the exuberance of Robb and Arya. 

But he was little more than a scared, terrorized boy, whose eyes were wide and caught on Jon’s form.

 _At least it’s not wildfyre,_ Jon thought with the tiniest of sighs, _that would not have been fun_.

Smoke swirled up, beginning to stain the tall ceiling as it attempted to find exits through the open doors and the tall windows to the throne room. 

The flames licked up and around his bare feet, the heat of the flames tickling his calves and then thighs as they raced up and up and up. Had he been anyone else, Jon would’ve been screaming in agony. Spying Aerys’s eager eyes through the flickering flames, Jon indulged him a bit, mocking out a few cries. “Ooo! Oooh! Aaaahh! It hurts, it hurts.”

He grimaced when he saw Jaime Lannister’s disbelieving stare. He had always been told he was a poor liar…

 _There’s nothing to it,_ he thought, feeling the rope binding his hands disintegrate as the heat around him intensified -- although nothing more than the tiniest tickle or feeling of a warm blanket keeping him comforted on the coldest of nights. If there was one thing Mellisandre’s God was good for, was his resurrection meant he was a bit different, half-living and half-dead, with magic and powers that were unique to both his Stark and Targaryen lineage. 

Of course, Daenerys’ rebirth was far more dramatic and Jon was kind of bummed he was resurrected after a mutiny versus sacrificing a witch who killed her unborn child because that story was definitely better to tell around a campfire, but the end result was the same: the ability to walk through fire unharmed with the Targaryen magics, and a strengthened bond between him and Ghost -- when they were still in the future -- and his warging abilities.

Murmurs were beginning to be heard over the crackling of the flame. Jon had left it long enough, deciding to move things along. He didn’t want to stay in King’s Landing any longer than he had to, and it was already several hours longer than Sansa planned.

Jon opened his mouth and croaked from the flames. He cleared it and tried again, this time calling loudly over the fire, “Are we done with this yet?”

The murmurs went silent.

Jon continued, “Hello? I’m tired of this. It’s been long enough -- I’ve proven fire cannot harm me.”

More silence, but a sputter of something reached his ears. 

“Aerys? Anyone? Can I actually fight someone in single combat now? I’ve clearly defeated fire,” he requested.

When no one replied, Jon yanked at his hands, the meagre pieces of rope falling away. He carefully nudged bits of wood from around his feet and stepped through the fire, smoke curling around his form as he emerged from the pyre, untouched by flame -- with his hair but no clothes.

He glanced down, sighed, and plaintively asked, “Does anyone have some spare trousers for me?”

Mouth open, the gold cloak who asked if he was right in his head unbuckled his gold cloak and handed it to Jon, who wrapped it around his waist and up over his shoulder in a toga. It was awkward but preserved his dignity some -- not like this was the first, or going to be the last, time he was naked in front of a large crowd.

“No…”

Jon’s eyes snapped toward the king.

“No,” sputtered Aerys, eyes wide. “It’s not possible -- No! No!”

Jon stared at the man, silently. 

“ _Blackfyre_ ,” hissed Aerys, jabbing a bony and bloody finger at him. “I name you Blackfyre! A pretender to the throne and crown!”

“I’ll have you know, my parents were married,” began Jon, affronted. “I’m not a bastard and I won’t take a bastard name that is not mine, thank you--”

“Lannister!” shrieked Aerys, rising from his throne, “Kill him! Kill the usurper!”

Jaime and Jon eyed each other warily, but the younger of the two -- _how strange is that,_ thought Jon with a little furrow to his brow, _that Jaime Lannister is now the younger of us -- and yet I know more about things than he does now. What a change!_

Jon backstepped, toward his grandfather. Rickard silently held out his sword -- Longclaw -- and Jon took it, ignoring Brandon’s open mouth stare.

“I’d really rather not do this,” said Jon quietly as he moved toward Jaime.

The younger man pursed his lips, swallowing a witty retort. His face was pale, and there was something bothering him with Jon’s very presence. 

But Jon merely took his sword and stood ready, watching Jaime Lannister carefully. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight -- in any sense. Jon was older, stronger, and had _years_ more experience than Jaime Lannister did, due to fighting at the Wall, fighting Free Folk, and then in the Long Night against wights and Others. He’d killed an Other; he fought the Night’s King, bastards, and soldiers alike. 

Now that Jon thought about it, much of his young life was dedicated to fighting something, and wasn’t that sad? His lips pursed, and Lannister blinked, something overtaking his face, barely bringing his sword up to clash against Jon’s opening salvo, and right from the beginning, he was off-foot, unsure if he was offense or defense, and Jon took advantage. 

He knew every move Jaime Lannister could and would make, and within three more flourishes and fancy footwork that was meant to distract, Jaime’s gold-hilted sword went crashing and sliding noisily into the crowd.

With his sword tip pointed at the blond’s chin, Jon muttered, “I have no desire to kill you. Yield.”

Lannister’s Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he swallowed, looking very much like the seventeen-year-old he was. He stepped back and carefully said, “I yield,” so that Jon, Aerys, and those around them could hear.

Jon lowered the sword and loudly pronounced, “According to trial by combat, I have not only bested Aerys Targaryen’s champion once but _twice_. As such, I ask that he honour his vows: release Brandon Stark, and all other Northmen, to return safely to the North and to renounce his claim, and that of his children, of the throne!”

Silence.

It was terse, and heavy, and smothering in a way that the still burning pyre created a smoke-filled room. It was hard to breathe, and some people were already coughing, but no one wanted to miss Aerys’ reaction -- and it was spectacular.

The king flew into a rage: his pale, sallow face went red, spit flew from his mouth and landed on his lips and chin, and he screamed himself hoarse as he shrieked the same words over and over, “Blackfyre! Usurper! Abomination! I am king! _I am the king!_ I am the dragon, not you! Kill him! Kill him!”

He pointed at Jaime Lannister, who looked shamefaced and away from the king; the only other member of the Kingsguard in the room, a tall man, with broad shoulders and flyaway dirty blond hair, and a very square jaw, glanced at the younger kingsguard member and sneered.

Jaime blanched, stepping back far enough to near his sword, which he picked up -- but his hands, his entire arm, was shaking.

In the meantime, Aerys continued to shriek, pointing at the gold cloaks in the room to do their duty, but they were all frozen, caught between Jon, Aerys’s instructions, and the imposing kingsguard knight that stalked toward Jon.

“Jon!” shouted Rickard, helping Brandon to his feet. Jon barely glanced at him but flicked his eyes in his relative’s direction. “Jon, be careful of the Bull!”

 _Bull? Oh,_ thought Jon, even as Gerold Hightower stepped forward, his sword ringing as he unsheathed it. There was something cold, almost vacant, in his eyes, peering at Jon from under a heavy brow.

Jon’s chin dipped and his breathing evened out, even as he said, “Ser - this is not your fight.”

“My duty is to my king,” the man replied evenly, his voice low and confident. His sword flashed against the still-burning pyre and fire.

Jon’s bare foot slid back, against the cool marble of the throne room floor, and Hightower moved forward, chest forward and making himself a larger target but utilizing his size to intimidate Jon. But for Jon, who fought giants, Hightower was nothing special.

Twisting, Jon weaved back and under the sword’s swing, bringing his own sword up to strike against and push the other man’s sword away. The two steel swords rang loudly against one another and Hightower grit his teeth. Jon continued, stepping forward and pressing his attack, disengaging his sword and bringing it around for another quick slam, toward Hightower’s side.

The man caught the swing and hacked at Jon, who blocked the incoming strikes. Hightower was a good fighter -- strong, capable -- but Jon didn’t learn to win by playing fair. He learned to win by winning at all costs.

He allowed Hightower to maneuver him, to chase him around the space people made in front of the throne and around the pyre until the flames were at his back. Jon let Hightower’s next strike send him to his knees, feigning exhaustion.

“Jon!” shouted Rickard in a panic.

“For the king,” declared Hightower, eyes cold, “Your time has ended, usurper.”

He brought his sword up with both hands on the hilt, ready to slam it down and sever Jon’s head, but Jon reached back, into the flames, where the wood had turned to ash and gathered a handful. 

Jon looked up at Hightower, smiled sadly, and said, “No. It’s just beginning.”

There was brief confusion in Hightower’s face, and Jon flung the ash up, a murky cloud of grey that hit against the man’s bare face. Hightower sputtered, eyes shut, and coughing even as he swung his sword wildly. 

Jon ducked beneath the swings and slammed into Hightower’s middle, launching the man off his feet and then slammed him bodily down to the ground, his sword pressed against this neck. Hightower’s sword was far from his reach, and a slam against the man’s head with the butt of Jon’s sword kept him from moving too much. 

The man’s dark eyes stared up at Jon, even as they watered and struggled to land on his dark form hovering above him. 

“Yield, Ser Hightower,” urged Jon. “I am tired of death, and I do not want to add yours to my already-long list.”

The kingsguard sputtered, “My duty-- To my king--”

 _He’s never going to stop_ , thought Jon. Grimly, he nodded and cleanly dragged his sword against the man’s neck, near the artery. He moved out of the way as the blood spurted and gushed out of the incision, pooling underneath Hightower’s neck and against the white of his cloak.

His eyes darkened further and his mouth went slack, and Jon reached forward to close the kingsguard’s eyes. As he did so, he said, “Rest now, Gerold Hightower. Your fight is over.”

Then, still bare except the golden toga around him, now dirtied with ash from the pyre and Hightower’s blood and stained from sweat, Jon stood, completely ignoring Jaime Lannister who had not moved forward during the fight.

Aerys’s mouth had dropped open, his sputtering dying to a mute kind of horror.

Jon was tired. He did not want to fight - he did not want to kill members of the kingsguard, those who were legends and strong warriors. They _needed_ them to fight the Long Night. 

“I grow weary, Aerys,” said Jon instead, staring up at the man. “Renounce your claim.”

“ _Never_!” he hissed, stepping forward from the throne, shaking with rage. “I will never give up the throne! I am the dragon!”

Jon’s eyes narrowed.

“If I cannot have King’s Landing, then _no one can!_ ” he screamed. His wild purple eyes landed on Rossart. “Burn them! Burn them all!” 

Wisdom Rossart nodded, as though that was a cue of his.

Confused, Jon froze for a moment, even as Rossart made to leave; but then Jaime Lannister was in his way and his sword was through the man's body, even as Rossart gurgled, blood dribbling down his chin. 

It was like everyone, all the knights, lords, and ladies in the room, realized in one collective moment what Aerys meant, and what Jaime Lannister did; what the King’s words meant. There was a swell of noise as people shrieked and cried, and Jon strode forward toward the throne even as Aerys stepped to meet him, glaring down at him from the height of the dais. Jon’s sword was ready, pointed up in defense for a blow from above if the King tried anything.

But then something happened -- the king’s foot caught in the folds of his black robes, just at the edge of the dais.

It was like the universe held its breath -- and then Aerys, the second of his name, tripped.

Time slowed, and Jon watched in disbelief. The universe was rarely so kind, and yet --

Aerys’s arms wheeled as he tried to regain his balance. He slipped off the dais, and gravity took over, sending him down toward Jon.

Jon grunted, staggering back on his feet as the weight of the king rested against him, his grandfather’s wide eyes staring at him even as he coughed and blood bubbled up in his mouth. His clawed hands struggled to rise and reached at Jon, barely scrambling against his shoulders, leaving only the faintest trail of marks against his skin.

“ _Burn… them…_ ” the king’s voice was thin and barely a gasp. The purple Targaryen eyes faded into dull indigo.

Jon stepped back, lowering his sword arm, and stared at the body of Aerys Targaryen, who had the misfortune to trip on his own clothing and land on Jon’s sword as he stood at the foot of the throne’s dais. His grandfather’s life’s blood, thick and darkly glistening in the firelight, dribbled down the sword toward Jon’s hilt.

 _Perhaps it is fate that one of my grandfathers is supposed to die here,_ he thought numbly, staring at the king’s body. _And by saving one, I damned the other_.

“Jon?”

Jon turned to face his living grandfather - his Stark grandfather - who was staring at him in shock. Brandon equally stared at him, and as Jon’s eyes swept the room, he realized he was the focus of many.

Jon let his sword fall to the floor with a loud clang. “This wasn’t the plan, I swear it!”

Rickard closed his eyes and reached his free arm forward, beckoning Jon toward him. “Jon, please,” he said, and Jon’s feet moved him toward the man, where he presented him with his shirt, boots, and other weapons. But no trousers. Despite that, Jon began to redress and finished by yanking his boots on.

Someone had told the gold cloaks to get water, and they, along with some maids, tossed buckets onto the pyre and extinguished the flames, leaving only the smell of wet wood. 

Jon moved to Brandon’s free side, gently taking his arm and pulling it over his shoulder to hoist the Stark heir up between him and Rickard. Brandon sent Jon a pained smile of thanks before they began to move. The crowd moved as the three Starks began making their way down the length of the throne room, their pace increasing the further they went from the ugly throne.

As they neared the door, a feminine voice cried, “Halt!”

Jon’s shoulders went straight, and Rickard’s grinding teeth were loud enough that Jon heard on Brandon’s other side.

They turned as one to see Queen Rhaella standing halfway down the throne room, standing alone as she stared at them. She was tall, thin, and might have been beautiful once before years of stress of living with her brother-husband took their toll on her: she was now waifish, her long white-blond hair thin and her cheekbones were painfully jutting from her face.

But there was something in her eyes - purple, the same colour as Aerys’ and the other Targaryen’s - that Jon couldn’t read, but the mulish expression on her face was one he knew well. He had seen it before in mirrors, in Daenerys.

Before Jon could do anything, Rhaella dropped painfully quickly to her knees, the sound a loud crack through the room. He winced; his heart clenching painfully at what she probably felt in doing such an action.

“Jon Blackfyre,” she stated loudly in the room so that all could hear, “As witness, I proclaim your trial by combat - thrice over - to be lawful in the eyes of the Gods. All Northmen are free to leave King’s Landing safely without fear of attack. The line of Aerys renounces all claims to the throne.”

 _Oh, good,_ thought Jon. That went according to plan.

“But I name you, Jon Blackfyre, through successful trial by combat, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!”

All goodwill fled Jon as everyone’s eyes turned to him, waiting for his response.

Eyes wide, he looked around the room and said, very clearly, “Fuck.”

* * *

{TBC}


	4. SAND

The Road to Victory

**

SAND

* * *

The problem with time travel, Arya was discovering, was that while they knew where things _ended up_ , they weren't sure about the journey there. In the case of Lyanna and Rhaegar, for example, Jon (through Sam and Gilly) had managed to learn they were married on the Isle of Faces, in the God’s Eye. From there, they had… somehow… managed to sneak through the Riverlands into the Crownlands and then through the Reach and into Dorne without anyone being none the wiser -- despite the party consisting of the Crown Prince and his two closest Kingsguard in Arthur Dayne and Oswell Whent.

The timing was off, it was odd, and Arya could only hope that by the time Jon and Rickard got to King’s Landing, Rhaegar and Lyanna had already installed themselves in the Tower of Joy. It made sense: it was isolated, far from anywhere for information, and keeping Lyanna secret and safe would be necessary during the war, especially if she -- and here, Arya made a face -- was carrying Rhaegar’s son.

Luck was on Arya’s side when, after taking a young rapists’ face, she arrived in Dorne. Information was sparse on a few weary travelers, but with Rhaegar’s slight toward Elia Martell, Dorne and the Dornish were bristling, a powder keg ready to explode with the slightest provocation. 

A nudge here, a suggestion there -- and Arya had her information. The Kingsguard had passed through the area several months previous, and they were at the Tower of Joy, absolutely confirmed.

A scouting session later confirmed that as well, with Arya not minding the baking heat of hard, red flaking rocks and sand when she pressed her body flat against the rocky outcrop and used a Myrish spyglass to survey the less-of-a-tower and more-of-a-mini-fortress of Joy. 

Tall walls in sun-bleached red and yellows jutted up from the rocks of the elevated outpost, overlooking the valley below. There were several long, rectangular wings, with a narrow point facing the hill’s incline, and a single tower reaching above the rest. But it would be far too much for only two - maybe three - men to guard. It would be easy finding an entrance that Whent or Dayne overlooked during their patrol.

Scaling the wall took the most time and was the more dangerous aspect of her trip - especially at night when she began -, but Theon’s brags about the Ironborn and their techniques and the crumbling, dry wall had numerous natural footholds and Arya was lithe and capable enough. She pulled herself up and over the wall at the top, eyes sweeping the empty battlement. There were a few braziers lit, but they were so spaced out they were only pockets of light in the inky darkness, reminding Arya painfully of the Long Night.

She shivered.

Creeping through the Tower of Joy was reminiscent of her time in Harrenhal: whatever the Tower had been once upon a time, it was a faded glory, a ruined castle that was once grand but was now barely held together with stone and mortar. 

There were many empty rooms and Arya commandeered one for her own purposes, always careful to never leave clues to her being there, but spent the next few days watching the four people who were living in the castle.

Rhaegar and Lyanna were utterly disgusting: barely emerging from their rooms in the tower, as it was the most secured part of the castle with a single stairwell to the rooms at the top and only a few windows until the near 360-degree view of the tower’s top floor provided. When they did emerge, they were sickeningly sweet with one another, closely pressed and whispering, glowing as newlyweds do, and feeding each other tiny morsels of food on a picnic blanket at the base of a bubbling fountain in the bailey, where a tiny garden of mostly weeds but some flowers and palm trees, grew.

Arya wanted to gag.

Whent and Dayne were boring: at night, they retreated into the castle and did patrols every six hours, barely getting enough sleep in their shifts -- they looked over Arya naturally three times during their evening patrols and she wasn’t even _trying_ to hide. During the day, neither remained inside of the castle, perching on the reddish rocks that surrounded the base of the castle, a natural stockade. They would impede anyone coming by foot or horse at the base of the hill.

Both men were exhausted, but holding up admirably when a horsed messenger cantered up on Arya’s fourth day, stopping in front of Whent and Dayne.

Both men had drawn their swords but relaxed when they saw the messenger’s colours and sword-and-falling star sigil. A rider from House Dayne, bending over to provide Arthur with a scroll and then taking off just as quickly.

 _He’ll kill that horse at that pace,_ thought Arya with a tiny sigh from where she was watching well above the men and out of sight from the tower. She did move toward the inner bailey, though, and was in a perfect spot to see Arthur hand the scroll to Rhaegar, who reluctantly withdrew from Lyanna.

He read the scroll, paled, and then crumpled it. His voice was strained when he announced, “Ser Arthur, prepare my horse.”

“What! Why?” asked Lyanna, jumping to her feet.

Rhaegar turned back to her, cupping her face. “My love, fear not. Something has occurred in King’s Landing and I ride to verify its truth. I will be back before you know it.”

Something shifted in Lyanna’s face. “Rhaegar -- what happened--” She reached up and clutched at the man’s wrists, still cupping her face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is it my family? Brandon? Father?”

There was a tiny grimace on Rhaegar’s face but he shook his head and pressed his lips tenderly to Lyanna’s forehead. “All will be well, Lya.”

 _Lya,_ Arya rolled her eyes. _But a return to King’s Landing instead of the battlefield? Oh, dear. Jon fucked up somewhere_.

Arya gave Rhaegar five days to leave the Tower of Joy and make his way through Dorne, as well as five days to let Whent and Dayne bring their guard down (as the Prince’s final instructions were “guard Lyanna with your lives” - _prick_ ) before she made her move.

The job was simple compared to some of the things she used to do for the House: this was a snatch and grab, returning her aunt to Winterfell. The length of Westeros might work against her, but if Jon messed up in their plans - which, knowing his luck, was possible - then Arya just had to get Lyanna halfway up Westeros into the Crownlands and the Starks would do the rest. 

Getting Lyanna away from the Kingsguard was going to be the hardest part, but Arya was prepared for that. She wasn’t going to fight the men directly - she wasn’t stupid - but she knew how to incapacitate them and was going to take pleasure in utilizing her skills.

First, she had to get Whent or Dayne out of the way before she went after her aunt. Arthur Dayne had drawn the short straw in checking the perimeter of the Tower, walking from one battlement to the other. The poor bastard would be at least four hours; five, if he walked the two inner baileys and the outer by Arya’s estimation.

It was easy slipping the buckthorn into Whent’s evening meal. The men had no reason to suspect that there was anyone else at the Tower of Joy, and Lyanna spent the majority of her time mooning for the prince in their shared rooms at the top of the tower, sometimes emerging only to goad the guard on duty into sparring with her, which they always said no to.

Arya then waited in the shadows, palming the thin, hollow pipe, until Oswell Whent stumbled past her hiding spot, arms wrapped around his middle as he sweated and groaned under his breath. He had discarded his white cloak, his sword, and even his distinctive helm with bat’s wings. His dark head was bowed low as he moved, barely making it to the privy before loud noises emerged from behind the wooden door.

Grimacing, Arya sent a mental _thank you_ to Tyrion Lannister for the idea of this plan (retelling how his father died was a past time he didn’t avoid and the Free Folk loved hearing about it - so did Tywin’s enemies), counted to ten, and then kicked the door open.

Whent’s head jerked up, eyes wide. He was squatting, pants very literally around his ankles, and no sword in sight. 

“What--”

Arya brought the pipe to her mouth and exhaled sharply, sending the dart - laced with curare - and it embedded itself in Whent’s fleshy neck. 

Shocked, the man reached up and yanked the dart out, staring at her and then it, and then back at her even as he struggled to his feet, his face flushing in anger. He almost reached his full height but ended up slumped against the wall with one hand on the dart and the other holding up his trousers. He began blinking quickly.

His mouth opened a few times. “I-- girl-- what did--”

Arya tilted her head to the side, and, given what she knew of the Kingsguard, decided to mess with his head a bit. “ _Valar morghulis_.”

Whent’s blue eyes went wide, wider if possible, even as he slumped heavily against the wall. He tried to take a few steps toward Arya, out of the privy, but he was already sagging as the curare raced through his system. She ended up pushing him back into the privy, almost gently, and he slumped against the back wall.

“Trust me,” she continued as he struggled to remain conscious, “You’re going to want to be in here with everything still in your system.”

His mouth opened once more, barely mumbling, “what?” out, before his head sagged forward. 

With a tiny smile, Arya began to tie the man up. One down, one knight to go.

* * *

Arthur Dayne finished his watch and went straight to his bedroom to remove his cloak and armour, a terrible breach given that had he returned to the mess where Whent had been, he’d have realized something was wrong.

But - habits. 

Arya was waiting for him, knowing that he did this after each perimeter check. There was a bowl of water ready for him, and some rags that he would use to clean himself off from the dust and dry heat that lingered even at night.

Dayne moved purposefully, his strides indicating someone confident in his body’s motions. Objectively, Arya could see why so many women still spoke about him in hushed tones in the future: he was a good looking man, with the pale, silvery hair of his Targaryen ancestors, and had the purple eyes of Edric, whom Arya had known once upon a time during the Brotherhood Without Banners. 

But, as she watched from the rafters above him, there was something weary to his posture, the slump of his shoulders when he thought he was alone. Jaime Lannister often looked like him - at least, at one point - and Arya wondered if the man was having second - or third - thoughts about what he was doing.

She stifled a snort. _Gods, I hope so_. As far as she was concerned, Rhaegar, Lyanna, the Kingsguards involved with this stupid scheme, were all to blame for the war to come. Aerys wasn’t alone in his depravity, but Rhaegar also did nothing to stop it, refusing to challenge his father or even depose him in a blood coup - it was clear he had the support but not the guts.

Dayne dipped the rag into the bowl, having divested himself of his armour and tunic, and began wetting down his chest, neck, and arms. Arya watched clinically, noting the muscles and the silver scars against the golden hue of his skin. 

Then, Dayne paused. He stiffened.

With a frown, Arya watched as he slowly turned on his heels, eyes glancing around the room just as he moved cautiously toward his discarded sword, which leaned upright in its sheath against a table. He slowly withdrew it, the sound of steel against the leather twanging in the silent evening.

“Who’s there?” the man demanded, voice firm and low. He withdrew a dagger from his boot and held it in the other hand that was not occupied with the ghostly shining Dawn.

Arya’s eyes were wide. How did he know someone was there? Had something given her away? She fought with her own annoyance at the thought that she made a mistake, but did not move.

“I am a member of the Kingsguard and you will obey!” the man snapped, eyes darting this way and that. He continued to slowly turn in spot, peering into all corners of the room. He never looked up, though. 

From one of the corners of the room, a lizard skittered out.

Dayne threw his dagger at it, registering the movement first and the being second. The lizard screamed as it died, eyes bulging and its tongue hanging out of its mouth.

The man grimaced, stalking forward and yanking the dagger out of the lizard and wiping it on his trousers. He sighed, lowering Dawn and his shoulders slumped once more. “Just a damn lizard, Dayne. Keep it together, man. You’re better than this.”

 _Now_ that’s _an idea,_ thought Arya, mouth stretching into a smile as she exhaled quietly, centering herself and casting her consciousness from her mind, seeking other lizards in the Tower. A few were nearby, and her mind caught one of them, sending the lizard climbing up the wall and then through one of the open windows. rocks from the window ledge were sent to the floor, and Arthur Dayne whirled to face the window, Dawn upright again.

The lizard flicked its tongue at him. 

Arthur Dayne gave an uneasy laugh.

Arya let go of the lizard and found another, this time high on the ceiling near her, and sent it creeping down the far wall.

Its shadow flickered against the few candles in the room, and Arthur Dayne spun toward it, both dagger and Dawn ready -- again -- but he paused at the lizard.

“Damn strange,” he muttered, but put Dawn on the bed and sheathed his dagger, shaking his head as he turned back to the washbasin.

Arya let the lizard go and it skittered away along with its friend by the window, but this time Dayne did not react, having gotten used to their presence and noises. With him suitably distracted, ignoring what he thought were lizards, Arya dropped from the rafters of the room on the balls of her feet, curare dart ready.

She made the tiniest noise and Dayne stiffened. She froze.

He shook his head, the silvery strands catching in the candlelight. “Just a lizard, Art, stop being such a craven.”

Arya fought back a grin and brought the pipe to her mouth, aimed, and exhaled.

The dart landed in the fleshy part of Arthur Dayne’s shoulder, deep, and the man whirled with a cry, hand already reaching for his dagger as he did so.

He managed to take a step forward and then caught sight of Arya, partially in the shadows. Anger mutated into confusion as the man stuttered, “My Queen--?”

Arya grimaced. “Really? Lyanna’s going to be _queen_?”

Shock briefly flickered across his face before he frowned heavily. “You’re not Lyanna...”

He wasted no time, lunging at her with the dagger, but Arya twisted out of the way, serpentine, as Arthur began to flag. She never raised her hands in response, only to bat away at his arm and redirect the attack, even when she could have taken the dagger for herself.

Eventually, the curare worked against the man and he landed heavily on one foot, mouth working as he blinked at the tiny Lyanna Stark lookalike. Even as he collapsed onto his knees, dagger still in hand, he murmured, “Why?”

“Why?” repeated Arya, kicking at his hand and sending the dagger sailing away and skidding across the stone floor. “Because the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

Something clicked for Dayne. 

“Stark?” he whispered hoarsely and then fell face-forward on the floor.

“Aye,” agreed Arya, despite the man being unconscious. “I’m a Stark.”

She tied the man up as well - much better than Whent, if she was honest - and then rolled him under his bed. She left Dawn on the bed, and retrieved his dagger. She glanced between it and the bed, then shrugged, tucking it into her belt. Spoils of war, after all. How many could say that they bested Oswell Whent _and_ Arthur Dayne?

The two Kingsguard were down from the count, and she had one last person to go after. Then, a return north.

* * *

There was no other word for it, thought Arya with a deep but silent scowl on her face. Lyanna was… _mooning_.

She was utterly mooning over the prince, the same way that Sansa used to moon over Joffrey, before he was an utter shite; the way she and Jeyne Poole mooned over Jory. 

_This_ was the girl that so many of her father’s men and acquaintances said she reminded them of? _This_ was the fierce, wolf’s blood girl? The girl who fought with swords, who dressed up as the Knight of the Laughing Tree and fought for Howland’s honour?

The same girl who was now sitting by a window, staring out of it and sighing as she awaited the return of the prince?

“I honestly expected better.”

Lyanna whirled on her knees from where she was perched, barely catching her hands against the windowsill so she wouldn’t topple forward. Her eyes were wide - the same grey that Arya had - and although they were of a similar age (although Arya was at least two years older than her, by her reckoning) and had similar coloured dark brown, nearly black, hair, and skinny, lithe bodies, it seemed that was where the resemblance ended.

“Who’re you?” the girl demanded in harsh Northern tones. Her eyes darted to the open door. “Where’s Ser Dayne and Ser Whent?” She raised her voice and shouted, “Arthur?! Oswell!?”

“They won’t be coming,” replied Arya, keeping her arms at her side as she watched her aunt stand from her perch and glower at the time traveler.

“Then who’re you and why’re you here?” the other Stark gritted out between her teeth, looking like a wolf cub baring its teeth at a bigger and meaner predator without realizing it. Her eyes looked around the room for a weapon.

Their eyes both landed on the heavy ornamental hand glass perched on a nightstand. 

“Please don’t,” began Arya. “I’ll have to hurt you.”

Lyanna’s eyes went wide and she lunged for the nightstand, just as Arya moved to block her and caught the girl’s outstretched arm in a bruising grip. Arya pulled the arm up, upsetting Lyanna’s balance despite her being taller.

With a pinch of a specific nerve, the arm was rendered useless. Lyanna sobbed, “What did you do?!” as she clutched at her arm with her good hand. 

“I just put it to sleep for a bit,” sighed Arya, leaning a hip against the very nightstand the girl had been moving toward, and incidentally, blocking her from the potential weapon. “It’ll be fine in a few hours.”

“Who _are_ you?” the other girl cried. “Why are you here?” She paled, and dropped her voice to a whisper, “Are you - are you here to _kill_ me?”

“Gods, no.” Arya rolled her eyes. “I’m here to bring you home.”

Lyanna blinked. “Home?”

Arya stared at her. “Home. You know - _Winterfell_.”

“But--” Lyanna’s mouth opened and shut. She shook her head and began to step backward, away from Arya. “No. No, I won’t go! I don’t care _who_ paid you - if it was father or Brandon, or, or Ned! I won’t go back. You can’t make me!”

“Gods,” muttered Arya, refraining from rolling her eyes although she really wanted to. Was this what she used to sound like when asked to do something she hated? Like needlework, or her lessons with Septa Mordane? It was no wonder Sansa was so cruel toward her then. She owed her sister an apology because the Gods knew - Arya was finding Lyanna’s obstinate words frustrating.

“They didn’t pay me to get you,” the time traveler spat. “No one paid me. If I had my way, I’d leave you here.”

Lyanna jumped on that. “Do! Do leave me! Leave me with Rhaegar - we’re happy, so happy - tell my father that - I can’t marry that lout, Robert - I don’t care what Ned says, he’s _terrible_ , he’s already got a bastard--”

“And Rhaegar’s got two trueborn children of his own, but that didn’t stop you, did it?” countered Arya coolly. She crossed her arms, idly tapping her fingers along her arm. “So what was the real reason, hmm? Why did you leave Winterfell?”

Lyanna blinked and seemed to shrink into herself. “I didn’t want to be trapped in a marriage.”

“And yet, now you’re trapped as a mistress.”

“I’m married!” shouted Lyanna, standing tall again. “Rhaegar and I married before a Heart Tree on the Isle of Faces! I’m married!”

“So it was never about being married, or married to someone with children,” mused out loud Arya. “It was about getting what _you_ wanted.”

Lyanna flushed red. “Well, don’t _you_?”

Arya blinked. “What?”

Lyanna gestured at her sharply. “You’re a Stark - don’t deny it, you can’t deny our looks. You’re older than me. Surely you must already be betrothed or married. Did you get a choice in who you’d marry?”

Arya stared at Lyanna for a few long, breathless seconds before she exhaled loudly and sharply. “You _stupid, stupid selfish girl_! Do you realize what you have done?”

“What _I’ve_ done?” Lyanna looked insulted.

“Gods above,” muttered Arya, “I _cannot_ deal with this right now.”

She moved quickly forward, toward Lyanna, who countered by quickly backing up. She edged toward a sideboard, eyes wide and she began crying, “What are you doing? Stop it! Stay away from me!”

She swept whatever she could to the floor from the board, sending vases of winter roses and crystal goblets to the floor, and threw dragon and wolf ornaments at Arya, who simply dodged the projectiles.

Lyanna soon reached the corner of the room, pressed in on both sides by the walls and Arya before her. She snarled and lashed out with her hands like claws, trying to rake them down Arya’s face. But Arya caught one hand and then the other, pushing both down and then with a savage move, headbutted Lyanna sharply in the nose.

The other girl shrieked, blood erupting from her nose and cascading down her mouth and chin. “You bitch!”

With Lyanna’s hands still in hers, Arya then yanked her forward and slammed a knee in the younger girl’s stomach. Lyanna gasped sharply, wheezing and then sinking heavily to her feet, forcing Arya to let go of her as she bowed her head.

“If you’re in there, sorry,” Lyanna heard the girl mutter before she felt a sharp jab at the back of her neck, and then, everything went black.

Arya on the other hand, stood over Lyanna, a queasy look on her face. Her eyes dragged down Lyanna’s prone body and lingered on her stomach. 

_I really hope Jon isn’t in there yet,_ she thought, her face taking on a green hue. _Oh, Gods, that’s just - don’t think about it, Arya, don’t._

Forcibly dragging her eyes from Lyanna’s middle section, Arya hefted the girl up over her shoulders and exited the room, carefully maneuvering her down the winding stairs that led up to the tower room. Once at the bottom, it was just as simple as walking through the many corridors, the baileys, and then to Whent and Dayne’s horses.

Whistling, Arya thought: _Damn, I’m good_.

* * *

Lyanna came to consciousness slowly, a lingering pain at the back of her neck and in her stomach. Strong smells of ale and soup overwhelmed her and for a moment, she was entirely discombobulated. Then, the rousing noises of men jeering, laughing, and mixed conversation in Southern tone and voices. Someone, somewhere, was singing _Jenny of Oldstones_ as a jaunty tune to various calls and boos.

“Whaaaa…” Lyanna’s mouth moved slowly, sluggishly, as she blinked and pushed herself upright. 

She was in a dark, earthy inn, tucked against a wall on one side of her and her Stark kidnapper on the other side. A bowl of stew and a mug of ale was in front of her, slightly off-centered, and the girl at her side and heartily tucking into her meal and was nearly done, mopping up the stew with a bun.

Around her, men and women of various houses and levels of life were going about their business, and Lyanna picked out familiar sigils in a glance: Buckler, Errol, Horpe, Penrose…

“I wouldn’t bother.”

Lyanna jerked suddenly, inhaling as her eyes cut to her side.

The other girl was watching her beneath hooded lids. 

“What?”

“I wouldn’t bother trying to ask for help. You were unconscious when I brought you in, so I spun a tale of you being my younger sister, stolen by some rogue, fiendish Dornishman, against our father’s wishes. I had to rescue you because my brothers were too useless, fighting; I snuck in and got you out but not without you taking a blow meant for me,” the girl explained. She grinned, wolfishly. “They all thought that was rather heroic of you, by the way.”

Lyanna wanted to whimper. She had escaped from Winterfell, made her own decisions, married Rhaegar, and now some slip of a Stark she didn’t know had stolen that from her?

“Where are we?” she asked instead through her teeth.

“Stormlands.”

“ _Why_?”

“Easiest route to take to head back north.”

Lyanna wanted to scream. She needed to find a way to contact Rhaegar! He had left her so suddenly, before; something about preventing war? Something about speaking with his father and stopping him from making a terrible mistake? -- whatever it was, he would come for her once he learned she was missing. She’d return to his side.

Her mirror image seemed to know what she was thinking if the irate look on her face was any indication. “Gods, you really _are_ stupid, aren’t you?”

“I am not!” she protested loudly, hoping someone would turn to them.

No one did.

The girl scoffed and turned back to her food. She made a sharp gesture with her chin at Lyanna’s untouched bowl. “Best eat that.”

Glowering at the instructions, Lyanna slowly pulled the bowl toward her and sniffed it. She cut her eyes at the other Stark, who was grinning.

“I didn’t poison it,” she said, barely hiding her mirth.

Grumbling, Lyanna began to eat, enjoying the hearty meal compared to the cheese and crackers and delicate fruits and vegetables Rhaegar had been feeding her. 

The two were silent, the other girl had finished her meal well before Lyanna when the group nearest them - a few seats down the bench - spoke in loud whispers while the bard was forced to stop his rendition of _Jenny of Oldstones_.

“--Hear the news?” one man whispered, although in his drunken state it was clearly stated.

“No, what?” his friend asked, thoroughly enchanted with the idea of gossip.

“The Mad King is dead!”

Lyanna stifled a gasp and the girl next to her jerked a bit in her seat before falling back into an easy posture. Lyanna was not fooled, as she could tell the girl’s ears were turned in the group’s direction despite her casual pose and pulling of her ale from her mug.

“ _How_?” one man gasped.

Lyanna wanted to know that, too.

“Heard it from some farmers,” the first man began, a bit more hushed now, if not reverent in his tone, “He tried to kill Rickard and Brandon Stark--”

Lyanna’s mouth dropped open and the girl next to her elbowed her sharply in her side.

“--trial by combat with the demand that the King, and his sons, step down from ruling. Ol’ Stark’s choice of a champion was his squire. The King laughed and laughed and said _his_ champion was going to be _fire_!”

“That poor squire,” mourned one of the group.

The first man shook his head and next to Lyanna, the girl was quivering. “No, that’s the rub, eh?” the man lowered his voice. “The squire _won_ , he’s a Blackfyre! He fought Jaime Lannister until the guard yielded, and then he killed the Bull!”

“Gods,” breathed Lyanna, eyes wide. She turned to the other girl. “Did you know about that when you took me?”

She shook her head. “No. I knew that there was a plan, but… this is so much better.”

Lyanna’s face twisted into confusion. _Better?_ Rhaegar wouldn’t be king! He wasn’t even a prince! What did that make _her_? She was beginning to feel sick.

“--then Rhaella fell to her knees,” the same man continued, and the other Stark girl didn’t hide that she wasn’t listening anymore - same with half the people in the inn. Everyone was paying attention to the man. “And declared the Blackfyre king of Westeros!”

There was silence in the inn, only broken when everyone erupted into shouts and demands for clarification or questions at the poor drunken man, but it was the Stark girl next to Lyanna who she fixated on when the girl groaned and let her head fall to the tabletop.

* * *

{TBC}


	5. SNOW, pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subtitled: Ned Stark and Horrible, Terrible, No-Good Lady Interloper.
> 
> Poor Ned.

The Road to Victory

SNOW, pt 2

* * *

Ned knew he wasn’t at his best. He wasn’t quite in a fugue state, but it was something close ever since his foster father Jon had received the raven with the king’s seal.

First, it was the information from his father that Lyanna was missing – Robert was furious, nearly foaming at the mouth as he too, suspected Rhaegar after the incident at Harrenhal. He had stormed up and down the Eyrie, a literal manifestation of his House’s words: _ours is the fury_. It took Ned and Jon several hours to calm him enough to try to figure out some sort of plan.

Then, they received the second raven from his father: Brandon had gone to King’s Landing to demand Lyanna back from Rhaegar, instead of heading to Riverrun to collect his bride. _That_ hadn’t gone well when they learned that he had been taken prisoner instead, along with his squire Ethan Glover; two young Lords from the Vale, who had been sent to Riverrun on Jon Arryn’s behest, Kyle Royce, and Jon’s heir, Elbert Arryn; and Jeffory Mallister, the heir to Seaguard.

The last missive Ned received from his father was to inform him to meet him and guards from Winterfell at the Inn at the Crossroads, and that he was continuing to King’s Landing to parlay with the King.

Ned thought it was futile; even Jon Arryn had nearly had kittens at the idea. Robert was kept under lock and key at the Eyrie, but he had already begun mobilizing his forces by calling his banners and sending daily ravens and instructions to his younger brother, Stannis.

But Ned was a dutiful son and journeyed with Jon to the Inn, where he… was thrown a bit off-balance at the sight of the two young adults at his father’s side, a place of preference and respect meant for the heir and family.

The young man was older than him, and, possibly, thought Ned, older than Brandon who had just turned twenty. He had a long face, the Stark looks, and with the grim turn to his mouth, Ned almost thought he was looking at a future vision of himself. Except – this man had the bearing of someone who knew who they were and what they were capable of and if people missed that, the wolf’s head pommel of the sword strapped to the side of his mount would rectify any mistakes.

The girl, however – Ned sucked in a breath as soon as he saw her. Older than Lyanna, who was just five-and-ten, but _so similar_ in manner and bearing with a wild grin on her face despite the pouring rain. She didn’t care she was soaked to the bone, but unlike his sister who wore dresses and kept to the Northern style of female frippery, this woman wore tunic and trousers and had her own blade.

 _And father didn’t seem to mind_ , realized Ned, glancing between them even as Jon tried to get Rickard to turn back north instead of south to King’s Landing.

Then he and the man who looked like Ned turned south, the girl with them took off toward the Saltpans, and Ned was going north – to home.

It was a harsh journey, with his father’s men urging them and their horses to the brink and yet the journey still took a month to complete. But things didn’t improve upon arriving at Winterfell – while he was expecting Ser Rodrik and Ben to greet him, maybe even Walys, he was instead met with a tall, redheaded woman in black and grey. She stood at the head of the procession, indicating the highest rank – _even above his brother_.

 _What is going on?_ wondered Ned again, not for the first – or last – time.

“Lord Eddard,” began the woman with a thin smile. “Welcome back to Winterfell.”

“Ned!” grinned Ben from her side, barely three and ten, and not even coming up to the woman’s shoulders. “There’s so much you’ve missed down in the Vale!”

“I—” Ned’s grey eyes darted between the two. He knew his father said to trust this redhead, but… “My lady, my apologies but… who are you?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Ned, this is our _cousin_ —”

“We don’t have any Northern cousins,” interrupted Ned, blinking.

“Yes, we do, this is _Sansa_ , from father’s sister who married into House Royce,” explained Ben with exasperation. “And you must have met Jon and Arya earlier—”

Ned was confused. “The two with father?”

His cousin, the Lady Sansa, nodded her head.

“They’re from mother’s side of the family,” explained Ben, again, seriously.

 _I’ve never heard of them before in my life,_ thought Ned with a frown. _Father’s never mentioned them once._

He cut a sharp look at Sansa.

“I understand you have reservations, my Lord,” she began carefully, her voice a high chirp, “But I assure you – we mean you and yours no harm. I swear it on the Old Gods and New. I am happy to swear before the heart tree, as well.”

Ned relaxed fractionally with that. “Very well, my Lady.”

“Shall we go inside? I’m sure you want to rest from your journey,” the woman said, turning partially and gesturing for Ned to follow her.

His mouth dropped open. The gall of her! To lead him into his own home! Acting like the lady of Winterfell! _What was going on?_

He glanced at Ben, but his brother bounded up after the woman, trailing after her and shooting question after question as they discussed – whatever it was – and behaving utterly besotted. Ned would have no help there.

But he resolved to keep an eye on Lady Sansa, regardless.

* * *

Despite his suspicions, his cousin Sansa was more than capable of taking care of Winterfell, having fallen into the position of Lady of Winterfell with ease that made Ned almost embarrassed for Lyanna when she would return. The servants and staff all seemed to adore Sansa, who ran Winterfell with a tight fist and a welcoming smile, and somehow, she seemed to know everyone’s names, their families, and the general coming and going of everyone else.

“How long have you been here?” asked Ned, trying to keep suspicion from his voice.

“Oh, about two and a half moons now,” replied Sansa, even as her blue eyes swept the great hall, carefully picking out the men-at-arms who needed more ale, or who finished with their meals and was jauntily singing along to a song, or the few men who were too far in their ale.

 _That’s it?_ thought Ned, a frown on his face. _How had she managed so quickly to win everyone over?_

A seed of suspicion – of her perhaps being an agent of the Targaryen’s – planted itself in Ned’s head. He narrowed his eyes and decided right then and there, he would keep a close watch on Sansa.

* * *

He asked Benjen first, about her. He cornered Ben between the kitchens and a dark hallway, using his older age and frame to box his brother in, but it didn’t seem to intimidate Ben at all.

“She arrived with our cousins Jon and Arya, Ned, I told you this,” said his exasperated younger brother with a heavy eye roll.

“Why have we never heard of them before?” demanded Ned.

Ben shrugged. “I don’t know, perhaps father is estranged.”

Ned opened his mouth to reply, but Ben cut him off. “Just back off, Ned! Sansa’s _wonderful_ and she’s doing a great job here. I swear, ever since you went south, you see plots and assassins in every dark shadow.”

 _I do not_ , Ned wanted to protest, but Ben squirmed his way around him and disappeared down the hallway. That avenue for information was lost to ned now, he mourned. So, he straightened his tunic, tilted his chin up and strode down the hallway in search of his next target.

* * *

Ser Rodrik Cassel was next on Ned’s list of people to go to, to learn more about Sansa Royce (Stark? Royce? Something else? Who the hells knew – it wasn’t like the girl introduced herself with a surname, nor did his father say anything). The young man was knighted for acts of valour during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, one of the few Northern men who had done so, and Ned knew he could trust the man.

“The Lady Sansa?” Rodrik’s face scrunched up in thought. “Well… she and her cousins Jon and Arya arrived together. Early morn, I reckon. Maester Walys indicated that Lord Stark was in his solar with them for some time before announcing them to the household.”

 _So, the cousins from different geographical places arrived at the same time? Suspicious,_ thought Ned, a flicker of triumph in his stomach. “Anything else?”

Rodrik was trying to grow some type of beard, but it was just whiskers for now, sparse, and yet he still scratched at his chin. “Lord Stark seemed very taken with them all. Almost immediately so; he and the man – Jon – would spend hours sparring.” Rodrik sighed happily, stars in his eyes. “That man is _gifted_ , milord – absolutely gifted. Lord Jon has a Valyrian blade and knows how to use it—”

Ned’s brows furrowed. A Valyrian blade? Jon – from his mother’s side of the family? The _Flints_? How?

“—and the youngest girl, the Lady Arya, Gods above!” continued Rodrik, rapturously and completely ignoring Ned’s confusion. “That girl knows how to wield a blade as well—”

“She does?” sputtered Ned.

Rodrik realized he had gone on about the two and came back to himself. He nodded. “Aye. She has a thin blade herself, and called her technique ‘water dancing,’ though I’d not heard of such before…”

“And their cousin?” Ned grit his teeth as he bit out, “The Lady Sansa.”

Rodrik nodded slowly. “Yes, Lady Sansa. She took over the ledgers and staff almost as soon as she arrived, and my Lord Stark was more than happy to allow it once he saw the changes she had made. In fact, we even have more food and grain than before – not sure how the lady did it, mind.”

“It’s winter,” said Ned, dumbfounded. “And we’ve more in our stores? But… with what coin did she spend? What is the state of our treasury?”

“Can’t rightly say, milord,” replied Rodrik with a shrug. “Perhaps you can ask her? Or Maester Walys?”

Ned nodded, his mouth a hard line. “Aye, that I will. My thanks, Ser Rodrik.”

“Erm, aye, of course, milord,” blinked Rodrik, “Only…”

“Only?”

The man – about a decade or two older than Ned, at least – looked bashfully at the ground and cleared his throat. There was a tiny blush on his cheeks. “I didn’t get the Lady Sansa in trouble, did I?” At Ned’s look, he hurriedly added, “She’s a proper lady, milord, she rightly is – and she’s done so much good for Winterfell and Wintertown in just the few moons she’s been here—”

“At ease, Ser Rodrik,” Ned hurried to interrupt the man’s rambles. “The Lady Sansa is not in trouble.”

 _… yet,_ finished Ned mentally.

Rodrik’s look of relief made Ned’s stomach turn. “Oh, good.” The man bowed. “At your pleasure, milord,” and then left.

Ned’s eyes followed the man as he wandered away. On to Walys, next.

* * *

Ned didn’t find Walys next on his mental list of people to interrogate about the Lady Sansa. He found Sansa with Old Nan in the great hall.

Nan was seated by the fire in the hearth, her gnarled hands still somehow nimble enough as she knit something – probably for her son – with Sansa seated next to her, working on the stitching of some kind. Around them were a few ladies from the kitchens and household, some working on repairing linens and drapes; a few others were, like Sansa, working on stitching but for clothing.

The gaggle of women made Ned sweat, and he was about to turn on his heel and find Walys when Nan and Sansa both looked up at the same time and spotted him. Sansa’s face lit up, and Ned could objectively admit that she was a rare beauty with her long, auburn hair and blue eyes. Her face was long, and Ned supposed that was the Stark look in her, compared to her tall height and thin lips which were not Stark-like at all.

But with all his suspicions toward the woman, Ned was thankful he did not lust after her. That would be awkward.

Nan cackled and drawled, “Young lord. Join us. I was telling the lady some of our stories, wondering if she had heard them in the south.”

Alarmed, Ned glanced at Sansa and back. “Nan, those really aren’t meant for Southern ears—”

“Pish-posh,” said Sansa, waving a hand. “Nan had just finished telling me about grumps and snarks. Quite amusing and wonderful stories to be told in the dead of a winter night.”

She glanced at the main doors with a tiny, rueful smile. “Well, perhaps during a winter’s afternoon,” she amended.

Ned gulped when she turned her blue eyes on him. “Surely you know some stories you can share, my Lord? I do so long to hear more.”

Nan’s eyes, dark, stared hard at him and Ned found himself sitting in a seat one of the kitchen girls vacated for him, near Sansa and Nan. “I, erm – well, it’s been some time—”

Nan sighed. “Oh, has the young lord forgotten the stories of his land? Has his time south softened him to the North?”

Ned squirmed, and muttered with eyes cast aside, “I remember some; they’re just not meant for a lady’s ear.”

“A lady’s ear?” snorted Nan, shaking her head. She reached out and patted Sansa’s knee, looking at the woman conspiringly. “This is the North, my lady, and here, there is no such thing as a story that shouldn’t be told.”

“Oh?” Sansa’s lips quirked and she glanced at Ned. “What story is this that you remember, my Lord? I think I wish to hear it.”

“Aye, which story, my lord?” echoed Nan, shrewdly. “The Nightfort? The Blood Sacrifices? The Children?” She paused and slid her eyes from Ned to Sansa. “Perhaps a story for when the white winds blow, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep and the ice wind comes howling out of the north.”

“Nan…” Ned’s voice went quiet and trailed off as she continued to speak, mesmerizing him just as easily as she did when he was a child. Opposite, Sansa equally held a thralled look on her face, although there was something sad about it.

“Let us speak of fear, and the long night, when the sun hides its face for years at a time, and little children are born and live and die all in darkness while the direwolves grow gaunt and hungry,” continued Nan, her voice thin and reedy. “When the white walkers move through the woods.”

Ned forced himself to scoff. “The Long Night is a story. There is no such thing as the white walkers.”

“Do you discount all stories as nothing more than tall tales, my Lord?”

Sansa’s voice cut through Ned directly, making him jump and look at her in surprise. “My Lady…?”

The woman was looking at him, something sad and stern at once, and Ned wasn’t sure how to read it when she spoke, a bit harshly to him. “Perhaps the Long Night is nothing more than a story. Yet, when history becomes legend, and legend becomes myth – we should not forget.” She put aside her stitching and rose, making all the other women around her and Nan look up and stop what they were doing, too.

Looking down at Ned, Sansa said, quietly, “After all, the Wall was built for a reason, was it not?”

With that final parting shot, Sansa turned and left, the kitchen and household women following her just as quickly as they gathered up their items, some even shooting Ned dirty looks for interrupting their down time.

When they had finally left, leaving him and Nan alone, he turned to her for an explanation. She only cackled and patted his hand. “Oh, my sweet child. You’re in over your head, Ned.”

He sputtered, trying to drag denials from his mouth, but Nan cackled again and dismissed him, leaving Ned to get up and wander away from the great hall in equal parts confusion and annoyance.

_What just happened?_

* * *

Walys and Rodrik brought Ned the news early in the morning a few days later: there had been wolf sightings in the Wolfswood, and several farmers had already come forward the other day about their livestock being decimated. Westeros and the North were still in the midst of winter’s grip despite the false spring they experienced during the Tourney at Harrenhal, and the loss of any potential meat was devastating.

As the Stark in Winterfell, it was Ned’s job to organize a hunt to cull the wolves, as much as it would pain him to do so, given his sigil.

He was organizing a company of riders and their provisions for a week, at most, Benjen included, when he spied Sansa walking toward them, the hem of her grey dress damp from the snow and two patches on the front of her dress wet circles.

Catching Ned’s eyes, Sansa laughed. “My pardon, my lord. I was praying in the Godswood this morn.”

“You pray in a Godswood?” blurted Ned, blinking at Sansa.

Sansa nodded. “It’s a peaceful place, tempered by great and terrible beauty.”

 _Apt,_ thought Ned, his mind driven to the image of the weeping face carved in his family’s heart tree.

Sansa stood curiously a few feet away, hands clasped in front of her as she tilted her head to the side, looking at the men running around, preparing leather satchels, and a few readying their horses. “Are you going somewhere?”

Benjen took that moment to pipe up. “There’s wolves in the woods! We’re going after them!”

Sansa looked askance at Ned, brows meeting. “Hunting _wolves_?”

“We think a pack has attacked several farms nearby,” explained a slightly abashed Ned. “We’re going to hunt it down.”

Sansa pursed her lips, nodding once decisively. “Please wait, my lord. I will join you promptly.”

“You--? Join?” Ned’s eyes bulged.

“Am I not to join, my lord?” asked Sansa, eyes hard.

Unable to find a perfectly good excuse quick enough, Sansa only waited a moment before disappearing into the castle to change; when she returned, she wore a black dress with a grey cloak. The colour contrasted severely with her pale face and her red hair, and against the grey of the cloak, Ned thought her hair was like blood on the snow.

Tongue thick, Ned unable to explain anything to the men joining him on the hunt as to why Sansa was coming along. They took their cues from him, but Sansa was good company, not complaining about the feathery flurries or the brisk wind that whipped at their hair and cloaks. She and Benjen spent most of their time talking, and Ned, overhearing, was surprised at the depth of knowledge Sansa had of the North. It was almost like she grew up loving the land from birth, instead of being born in the Vale.

It was Rodrik who spotted the wolf first: it flashed a black shadow through the bare trees ahead of time, hidden partially by the low, sweeping branches of the pine trees. There was a cry by one of the men, and the hunt was on as Ned spurred his horse forward.

They dodged through gaps between the trees, and under low-hanging branches. Sansa was neck-to-neck with Ned, something that vaguely impressed him when he wasn’t focused on the black blur ahead of them. He did twist back enough to shout at her to be careful when he managed to dodge a branch, but she did not, leaving a thin, whip-like cut across her cheek.

Then, at one point, Ned lost the black wolf. He found a clearing in the Wolfswood, and drew his foaming horse to a halt, wheeling it around as it cantered. Sansa pulled up beside him, eyes peering ahead into the thicker trees, while Benjen, Rodrik, and others burst through the gap he had made.

“Where did it go?!” gasped Rodrik, eyes wide. “And Gods above! Did you _see_ the size of it? That’s no wolf!”

“What is it then?” asked Benjen innocently.

Ned was grim when he replied, “A direwolf.”

“South of the wall?” scoffed one of the men-at-arms. “Preposterous!”

A growl interrupted them, and Ned whirled around to see the black wolf – the black direwolf – slink out from underneath several low branches that protected it from the drifting snow. It peeled back its gum, revealing long, sharp yellow teeth as it snarled.

Ned unsheathed his sword, sliding from his horse’s back as he did so. The men behind him followed except two who slowly drew arrows, and strangely, so did Sansa, who was unarmed. “My lady, stay back—”

But Sansa caught the wolf’s eyes and it stopped snarling. Her face went slack even as she took a step forward, her boots crunching on the snow. The wolf watched her as she approached.

Ned froze when Sansa stretched a hand out—

“Lady Sansa, no! Come back, my lady!” cried Ned, breaking whatever spell the wolf was under. It barked at Sansa, once, twice, and then turned, and raced back under the branches and through the trees.

But this time, Sansa hiked up her dress and crashed after the wolf.

Rodrik swore, even as Ben cried, “Sansa! What do we do, Ned?”

“Follow her!” shouted Ned, eyes on Sansa’s snowy footprints. The girl was fast, he realized, ducking under a branch and then weaving around a fallen log as he kept his eyes out for signs she passed by. Between her tiny prints, there were four massive paw prints but no blood. The wolf was leading the woman somewhere, and Ned had to stop her before the worst happened. His father would _murder_ him if something happened to his cousin!

Ned spotted Sansa’s bright hair first and heard her second. She stopped before a cave entrance, calling out prettily, “Oh, is _this_ where you’re hiding…?” just as ducked into the dark maw.

“Sansa!” cried Ned, plunging in after her. He vaguely heard confirmation of the men behind him.

A few steps in he froze, eyes wide.

Sansa was on her knees, cooing softly to a pretty, sable direwolf pup. The pup itself was on its hind legs, yipping excitedly with its front paws on Sansa’s chest, tipping the girl to the cavern floor. She was crying and laughing at the same time as the pup licked at her face, anywhere it could reach.

“Lady! Oh, my precious, adorable Lady!” the redhead was crying.

At that, a pure white pup bounded from behind its mother, a large grey beast, along with a rompish, growling brown pup, each joining their littermate in covering Sansa with wolf slobber.

Ned’s mouth dropped open, and his sword dipped as his hand went limp at his side. Benjen appeared behind him, gasping loudly at the sight. He reached out and grabbed Ned’s cloak tightly, winding his hand in it as he breathed, “Gods, Ned. Are those – are those _direwolf puppies_?”

“Aye,” muttered Ned, counting the three that were all over Sansa; there was a grey one, similar in colour to its mother, a pure black one like its father, and another sable one that was ambling toward Benjen, sniffing at his boots.

Six direwolf puppies.

Two adult direwolves.

“Gods above,” breathed Rodrik as he ducked into the cave. His sword was trembling. “We should leave quickly and quietly my lords. Then, we can slew the beasts—”

“No!” shrieked Sansa, standing up so quickly the puppies took a tumble. The sable one she called Lady turned to the men and began yipping. She reached and scooped the puppy up in her arms, clutching it tightly.

Ned’s breath hitched and he stopped breathing. “Sansa, Sansa, please, put the direwolf down… we don’t want its parents upset…”

Sansa scowled but refused to drop the wolf. The albino and brown pup who had been playing with her huddled at her feet, sitting back on their haunches and watching Ned with careful, bright eyes that were far too intelligent for his liking.

But the parents – the direwolves – they weren’t attacking at all or moving from where the mother lounged near the back of the cave, her mate at her side. It took him several moments where his blood rushed in his ears to realize that while he and the Stark men were being watched, none of the animals made to attack them.

“How dare you?” seethed Sansa. “How dare you even consider slewing the Stark sigil?”

“I—” Ned’s mouth shut.

The wolf at Benjen’s feet whined pitifully, and Benjen, far braver than Ned, copied Sansa by reaching down and cuddling it in his arms. Then he turned his eyes on his brother and Ned was slammed with two wide, brown orbs glittering at him.

“Ned, you wouldn’t hurt him, would you?” Benjen’s lower lip quivered.

“No, he wouldn’t!” declared Sansa, beaming at Benjen. “Look – he’s chosen you! Eight wolves, one for each Stark!”

A part of Ned wanted to protest; Sansa was a _Royce_ , or whatever house her mother married into – _not_ a Stark – but… Benjen began excitedly talking about his pup, staring adoringly at it.

Ned sighed. Something heavy landed on his foot and he looked down to see one of the pups, the grey one, had come up to him in the meantime, and was now batting at his shin, whining at him. The pup fell back on his rear and stared up at Ned.

His lips did _not_ twitch. They didn’t.

“I suppose we can take care of them if their sire and bitch allow us,” allowed Ned eventually, trying to ignore the grey fluff chewing on the edge of his cloak.

Sansa beamed. “I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.”

Between Sansa, Ned, and Benjen – Rodrik absolutely refused to help in any way – they stuck the puppies out into the leather satchels that once carried food (now placed elsewhere in other bags) while the black and brown adult direwolves followed at a sedate pace behind them. Despite their pace at the groups’ back, the horses were spooked, and they ended up leading the horses by foot back to Winterfell.

A distant part of Ned was wondering how sideways things had gone since those ravens from King’s Landing. Since his arrival back in Winterfell to find the strange lady interloper had taken over it with his father’s blessings. Things were strange enough; nothing else would make things stranger.

Upon their entrance to the ancient castle, Walys appeared, a nervous tick on his cheek indicating his unease. He had a scroll in his hand that he held out promptly to Sansa. “My Lady, this came for you from the capitol.”

Sansa blinked, and took the scroll; Ned saw the moment Walys realized there was a wolf pup tucked into the bag at Sansa’s side in the way the man blanched and tripped over his feet as he hurried backward.

“Oh. Oh, dear,” said Sansa, causing Ned to turn to her.

“What? Is it Father?” he urged, stepping closer to her.

Sansa looked up. “Oh, no, it’s Jon. He’s written.”

She cleared her throat and read the letter out loud for the benefit of those in the bailey: “' _Dearest Sansa: If convenient, please come to King’s Landing as soon as possible. Plans didn’t go accordingly. I am now King_.'”

Ned’s knees wobbled and, although he would deny it, he swooned the tiniest as blood rushed away from his head, settling somewhere low just as his stomach dropped from under him, as well.

“There’s more,” added Sansa unhelpfully, turning the scroll over. Ned spied the hurried, harried scrawl on the back, added as a post-script. “‘ _If inconvenient, please come all the same. Much love, Jon_.’”

* * *

{TBC…}


	6. KING

The Road to Victory

KING

* * *

Jon remained with Rickard and Brandon long enough for Rhealla and Elia to show them to a room off the great hall of the throne room, and then promptly did an about-turn, stalking quickly away from everyone despite Rickard’s frantic calls of “Jon! _Jon, please_!” behind him.

He took a few lefts, a few rights, and at least two staircases in opposite directions and ended up somewhere he had never been before – although, the last time he had been in King’s Landing, he had only seen about four rooms in total and was escorted everywhere by the remains of the City Watch. He was a Stark in King’s Landing, and he had left the only protection he had.

Jon cringed.

A look around him had Jon realizing he was leaning against a smooth wall on the second floor of a covered walkway. Opposite him were curved arches along the balustrade with decorative columns between each opening. There were tiny dragons crawling down the columns, subtly proclaiming the heritage of those who inhabited the Red Keep.

He had never felt so out of place – what had Rhaella been thinking, to proclaim _him_ of all people, King of the Seven Kingdoms? He could barely manage the Night’s Watch from killing one another and _they_ killed _him_! He tried to do good things and ended up with a fire immunity –

Jon paused. Well, that wasn’t so bad, he supposed. It could’ve been a lot worse than a fire immunity; like, never returning to the living, to begin with…

“I’m not getting out of this,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his head. There was no way Rhaella was going to let him go – he was family, distant as it was to her, anyway despite Jon and Rickard knowing the truth – and he had beat Aerys’ champion three times over in front of the entire court. The Lords and Ladies of Westeros were probably already gossiping, and Pycelle had probably already sent a raven to Casterly Rock.

Jon’s head snapped back and hit the smooth, pale red stone. He groaned. _Just_ what he needed… Tywin Lannister!

Despondently, he looked around the empty hall. Was it too late for him to fuck off and find passage to the Summer Isles? Yi Ti? Life would probably be quieter…

But –

The Long Night. The Others. The Free Folk beyond the Wall. They were coming, and no one would survive without proper guidance. Without the right people – _person_ – leading them. As nice as it would be, to find some quiet corner of Planetos and live out the rest of his life ( _and didn’t I deserve it?_ a tiny voice cried in Jon’s mind, _haven’t I done enough –_ given _enough to these people?_ ), running away wasn’t him.

“I’m not craven,” muttered Jon, stepping away from the wall. “I’m not.”

He looked around the nodded once to himself, tugging on his borrowed toga. The fabric of the golden cloak stretched a bit and settled a bit better over his shoulder.

Jon purposefully began retracing his steps, as best as he could until he came across the first servant he saw in several minutes. “Uh, pardon me—”

The servant turned and squeaked in alarm upon seeing him. They dropped the bundled of clothing they had in their arms and fell sharply to their knees, head bowed low as they began mumbling, “Your Grace, I didn’t see you there, I am so sorry Your Grace, please forgive me, Your Grace, I am your humble servant, Your Grace—”

“Can you breathe?” asked Jon, amused.

The servant froze. “… Your Grace?”

“That was quite the response,” replied Jon. He leaned down and helped the young woman to her feet. She trembled under his hand. He began to pick up the clothing on the ground, and the girl squeaked again.

“Your Grace, you mustn’t—” she then clamped her hands to her mouth, eyes wide.

Jon looked up from the floor, curiously. “Surely you need help?”

“Your Grace?”

“Jon, if you don’t mind,” corrected Jon with a small smile. He stood and passed the bundle, now all collected, to the maid who took the fabric automatically, despite staring at the tall Northerner with comically large eyes.

“Your Grace King Jon,” began the girl, her voice a bare whisper.

“Um, well,” Jon reached back and scratched at his neck, fighting a blush, “I suppose I’ll take that. Listen, I’m a bit lost and trying to find my—” He paused, clearing his throat. “Erm, my kin? Lord Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark?”

The girl bobbed into a curtsey and nodded frantically at the same time. “Of course, Your Grace King Jon, Your Highness.”

Jon stared at the girl and waited.

She stared back.

Finally, he asked, “So… where are they?”

She squeaked again and blurted, “Two floors down, third door on the left, Your Grace King Jon Your Highness.”

“Right, thank you…” Jon hesitated, looking down at the girl, waiting for her name. She looked at him like a rabbit caught in a wolf’s sight. He sighed, giving her a tiny, dismissive wave.

The servant bobbed another curtsey and then practically fled from him, her skirts kicking up behind her even as her shoes slapped hard on the floor. Jon waited until she disappeared down the corridor and then turned at the junction, leaving him alone.

There was still lingering doubt in Jon’s mind – why wouldn’t there be? – that surely, someone, anyone, could do a better job as a _king_. He wasn’t raised to be one – he was a bastard, a Commander, but… king? Rickard would know someone better; he was just a displaced traveller, keen on the Long Night, not King’s Landing…

When he stepped into the room he had fled, Rickard took three long steps and then tightly embraced him. “Gods boy, you scared the life from me – don’t _do that_!”

Shocked, Jon’s arms automatically rose to pat his grandfather on the back. He hadn’t realized he had scared the man badly – he was shaking.

Rickard drew back. “I’ve nearly lost one child here, don’t make it any more!”

Jon winced. “Sorry.”

He looked around the room; they were in a sitting room of some sort, a receiving room with chairs and loungers and breezy, open windows. Several doors were open, leading to bedrooms, one which was occupied by Brandon. Maester Pycelle hovered over his uncle, nodding and humming and hawing.

Jon wanted to gut the man, the spineless rat. He settled for glaring at him until Rhaella spoke up, catching his attention.

“So, you’ve returned.”

Looking like poise and grace, with her back straight and perched at the end of her chair, Rhaella looked at Jon with indigo eyes from the rim of the teacup. Elia sat kitty-corner to her on a lounge couch with Rhaenys next to her, but her cup was on the long table before them, along with a tray of pastries, tortes, cakes, and other nibbles. Rhaenys was attempting to mimic her mother and grandmother but the crumbs around her mouth and on her dress, as well as the gleam in her eyes as she looked eagerly at the cakes, spoke differently.

“Aye,” replied Jon, awkward and stiff. His eyes darted around the room.

“Are you done with your pity party?” continued Rhaella, a pale eyebrow twitching up.

Jon’s eyes snapped toward her and then narrowed on the queen. A fire burned in his stomach and he found his anger rising. He gave a tiny, shallow bow, and his tone was edging toward insolent when he said, “My apologies, Your Grace. However, I do believe you are mistaken; I cannot be king.”

Rhaella’s own eyes narrowed. Vaguely, Jon saw Rickard’s bewildered expression as he looked between the two. Even Elia looked like she was holding her breath, eyes wide.

“I decreed it, boy,” said Rhaella, slowly, carefully. “You are the king.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed further. “I abdicate.”

Rickard’s eyebrows shot upward. “Jon—”

“Abdicate?” echoed Rhaella, snorting. “To my cousins’ son? Robert Baratheon?”

Jon paused. Unlike those in the room, Jon _knew_ what Robert Baratheon would be like as a king: loud, ruinous, a wastrel and drunk. A warmonger _and_ a whoremonger. He would be well-liked, beloved by (most) of the kingdom, but he wouldn’t lead them to victory or make the decisions needed to survive the Long Night.

Mentally, Jon ran through the names of the others who might become king if he abdicated; Robert _could not_ sit on the throne.

Stannis? A good man, but harsh and unyielding in his outlook. He wouldn’t win any friends and while he would do his duty to protect the realm – far better than anyone else, Jon thought – he wouldn’t unite them. He was out.

Renly? He was four. He’d be a puppet and while well-liked, easily swayed by a pretty face and honeyed words. No, he was no king.

How far would they have to trace the line? To Maekar? Further back? Sideways to a Martell?

… there really _wasn’t_ anyone else. The thought must have appeared, easily read, on his face, because Rhaella softened her voice when she said, “You’ve won by trial by combat, thrice over!”

Jon opened his mouth to speak – although he was unsure what he would say – but Rhaella ran over him.

“The kingdom is yours, take it. No one is crying for Aerys,” she finished, with a heavy scoff. “Certainly not me.”

Jon blinked. _Well, if she puts it that way_ … then Jon paused, alarm spreading across his face. _Oh fuck. I think I killed Daenerys._

“I never wanted to be king,” he muttered, anguished. He ran a hand through his curls and swallowed thickly.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he turned partially to see his grandfather peering at him, a grimace on his face. “The best men never do. And yet they’re the ones who will lead us best. And… won’t this help? With your goals?”

“Goals?” asked Rhaella, tilting her head as she gazed between the two men. Jon ignored her, ignored Elia’s curious dark eyes, fixating on his grandfather’s grey. They were lighter in colour than Jon’s, but they held compassion and paternal care that Jon had missed as the years went on and Ned Stark’s death passed further and further into the past. He missed having the guidance Ned gave him; the guidance Jeor gave as Lord Commander; hell, even Mance and Davos were father-figures of a sort. But having _Rickard_ Stark look at him like that – it was like he could take on the world and succeed without trying.

Jon turned on his heel toward Rhaella and scowled at her. “I’ll take the damn crown. But I’m melting down the chair.”

Rhaella’s lips turned upward into a smirk. “Very well, Your Grace.” She set her cup down. “Now, what’s this about goals?”

* * *

There was much to do before a coronation, and Rhaella seemed to relish organizing it, being free from the yoke of Aerys and his reign. Jon left her to it, spending much of his time with Rickard and Brandon, who was still recuperating from his stay in the dungeons, suffering from malnourishment, torture, and the trauma involved in his arrest, as well as seeing his companions die.

Jon regretted that – he had hoped that Aerys had not killed those who travelled with Brandon, but the same thing happened: only Ethan Glover survived. Ethan was situated in one of the other rooms adjacent to the suite Brandon was in, as secure as they could make the Red Keep with only four Northmen, and only two of those on their feet. They needed more protection.

It wasn’t that Jon thought someone would try to kill him: firstly, Targaryen heritage. No one knew which side of the coin Jon’s mental stability would fall on, so most people kept out of his way. Second, Targaryen heritage: Jon was fireproof (if by luck, but no one needed to know that). Sure, someone could try to assassinate him with a blade, or poison, but he already proved himself to be death-defying, so why would someone bother? And thirdly, Jon had beat Gerold Hightower in single combat. That _definitely_ counted for something.

But other than Hightower and Jaime, where had the other Kingsguard been? He was sure no one told Jaime Lannister anything, so Jon went to the next best source: Elia Martell.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you,” he began, stepping cautiously into the suite. Jaime Lannister stood guard outside of Elia’s room, particularly when she was with Rhaenys and Aegon. But he had stepped aside when Jon stepped up to the royal chambers. Both Rhaella and Elia had suggested giving the royal chambers up, but Jon did not want to disrupt their lives further, and Rhaenys and Aegon needed familiarity. He wasn’t going to change that.

Elia blinked up at him from where she sat near a fire, a blanket wrapped around her legs. “Of course, Your Grace.”

She struggled to get up and curtsey, but Jon stepped into the room and shook his head. “Please, don’t. Let’s just… let us speak.”

Warily, Elia nodded.

Jon sat on the free seat opposite her with a sigh.

“What can I help you with, Your Grace?” asked the Princess cautiously.

Jon took a moment to study her: she was near his age, if not a little older, with long, thick black hair. She was skinny, with her collarbones protruding and skin stretched thinly across her shoulders. Despite the darkness of her eyes and skin tone, and the slight dark bruising under her eyes, Elia Martell was a very pretty woman. Her waif-like appearance did not diminish the intelligence in her eyes nor the inner strength she bore in handling the changes to her life in King’s Landing with Rhaella’s pronouncement.

“I wanted to ask you what you are planning on doing, going forward,” began Jon slowly, watching Elia carefully. She blinked. “I want to make something clear, Princess: _you are not my hostage_. You are not a prisoner, nor are your children.”

Something shifted in Elia’s face, from wariness to bewilderment, to cautious hope.

“I would offer you one of these three choices,” continued Jon, leaning the tiniest bit forward. “You can stay, here in King’s Landing. You have the most experience with court life, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t want Queen Rhaella determining my life from how many courses my coronation feast should have, to what colour my small clothes are.”

Elia stifled a laugh, looking away for a moment.

Jon grinned. “Your other option is to return to Dorne. And if you have no wish to return to Sunspear or the Water Gardens, then Braavos. Or Myr. Or Qarth, or Yi Ti, or whatever else you wish.”

Elia’s eyes were glistening, but she blinked the tears away. Her hands folded delicately in her lap when she sat a bit straighter and asked, “Upon what conditions, Your Grace?”

 _Smart woman,_ thought Jon with a tight-lipped smile. “As per Lord Stark’s conditions, Rhaegar’s children will not inherit the throne. Rhaenys and Aegon may keep their titles as Princess and Prince, but _of Dorne_ , Princess. The title dies then with them. But they are as free as you are – I will not ask for them to remain as hostages or to foster them when they are older, so long as you make these terms and conditions clear.”

The tears did fall this time, and Elia’s hands trembled when she brought them up to press against her mouth.

Jon reached forward and gently took one of her hands in his, cradling it. He made sure to look her directly in the eyes when he murmured, “You have suffered enough, Princess.”

Elia bowed her head, her body trembling. She was speaking, and it took Jon a few moments to hear the gasps. “Thank you. Thank you. _Thank you_.”

He gave her time to compose herself, delicately resting her hand in his so that she could take it from him at any time. The control was hers, and Jon waited until she was ready to speak again.

“I think I shall remain in King’s Landing for a bit longer, Your Grace,” she sniffled, despite the beaming smile on her face. “But then I will return to Dorne, to my brothers.”

“Of course,” replied Jon. “I welcome your presence here. And… your help?”

Elia smirked. “Of course.”

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Elia could stand up to Rhaella and tell her that red washed him out…

“Ah, Princess, one last thing,” Jon said later before he left her suite.

Elia looked at him, curious.

“Where can I find the remaining Kingsguard? Your uncle and Barristan Selmy and Jonothor Darry?”

* * *

Jon didn’t need to go looking for them: they found him.

Embarrassingly so.

Jon had an earlier meeting with Rhaella and the High Septon regarding his coronation and its procedure, with the High Septon asking about Jon’s history with the Faith. Jon stuttered his way through it, barely remembering things he picked up from Sansa in his youth. When the Septon had asked about how religious views, Jon took grim pleasure in regaling him with how he was raised in the North, was a heathen who worshipped trees, danced naked on the full moon to honour his gods, and practised blood sacrifices to the Weirwood trees. Only two of those three were anywhere near true to Jon’s recollection of Northern worship, but Jon wasn’t going to tell the High Septon which. It left the man pale and sweating and Rhaella glowering at him when he finally escaped to Rickard’s suite.

Brandon was asleep but looking better; Ethan was walking around the suite with some help, and Rickard was spending his time corresponding with Winterfell, Jon Arryn, and Hoster Tully when he wasn’t listening to Jon’s complaints.

Seeing the man busy, Jon went to his next source of entertainment: Rhaenys and Aegon, who both took to him after he offered Elia her options. And that was where the three remaining Kingsguard found him: on his knees, with Rhaenys on his back, tight hands fisting his black hair and screaming, “ _Forward, wolfie!”_ while Aegon clapped and shrieked gleefully from Elia’s lap.

The men burst into the room, Lewyn Martell and Barristan Selmy with their swords drawn with wide, frantic eyes. Jaime was behind them, half-hidden by the door, loudly telling Jonothor Darry that everything “was fine, could they just _calm down_ —”

Eyes wide, Jon met the two Kingsguard. Selmy was confused, his sword lowering as his eyes swept over the scene: Jon and Rhaenys playing on a rug before Elia with Aegon on her lap; the discarded dolls and building blocks that both children used; the two sets of teacups and pastries on trays.

Lewyn, on the other hand, had already sheathed his sword, fighting a smile on his face when he caught Jon’s eyes again. Jon stood, catching Rhaenys as she slid, giggling, down his back to a piggyback position instead. Her arms draped around his neck.

“Jon, wolf speak!” demanded Rhaenys, throwing her weight back and catching Jon around the neck and making him choke.

“Wolf speak?” echoed Lewyn, this time _definitely_ not fighting a grin.

“Uncle Lew! Jon speaks wolf!” agreed Rhaenys. “Right, Jon? Speak wolf?” She then lowered her voice as much as she could to mimic his Northern burr. “ _Ayeeee_.”

Jon looked away from Lewyn and Selmy, who had also sheathed his sword; to Jonothor who was staring at Jon; to Jaime, who was grinning, and finally to Elia who was busily stirring her tea in forceful circles and ignoring him.

“ _Jon_ ,” whined Rhaenys.

Miserably, Jon did as the Princess demanded in his most deadpan voice. “Woof.”

Rhaenys responded to this with a peal of shrill laughter. Wincing at the loud noise in his ear, Jon hurriedly walked to the couch and dumped the still laughing Rhaenys on the cushions next to her mother and then turned back to the Kingsguard, tugging at his tunic, and clearing his throat.

This was _not_ how he wanted his first impression with these men to go. “Sers—”

“So. This is the new Blackfyre king,” began Jonothor instead, interrupting him. The man stepped forward and loomed over Jon – who, despite being tall, was still several inches shorter than the knight. Annoyed, Jon stood still, eyes on the man as he circled.

There was derision in his voice when Darry asked, “Why should I serve such a man?”

“No one is asking you to,” replied Jon, trying to keep his voice even despite the flicker of anger and flames building in his chest.

“You think you’re better than any Targaryen king, boy?” continued Darry, a sneer on his voice.

“I’m infinitely better than the one that was just on the throne,” snapped Jon, eyes narrowing at the knight. “I don’t burn people alive.”

Darry stopped, keeping to Jon’s left. “No, you slay kings. I should call you _kingslayer_.”

Jon struggled to keep the laugh from bubbling out of his mouth and kept his eyes on Darry instead of looking at Jaime like he wanted. “I didn’t plan to kill Aerys, nor did I want to. Although I do understand if you find it hard to believe that the king tripped onto my sword.”

“And Gerold Hightower? What happened to my Commander?” demanded Darry.

Jon’s annoyance fled to regret. “He demanded satisfaction, Ser. He did not yield, despite being given the opportunity. I regret his death, deeply, but I made it clean and quick.”

Darry hummed, a thoughtful if not unbelieving noise, but leaned back.

At Jon’s right, Barristan Selmy stared at him, his face like granite. There was nothing warm in those eyes. “Why should I serve you over my King’s son? My Prince?”

“I am not stopping you.”

Selmy blinked in shock.

Seeing it, Jon continued. “If you wish to serve Rhaegar, please, go ahead. I do not want to inherit unwilling guards. Queen Rhaella proclaimed me King because I won by right of combat, thrice over. Because Aerys tried to burn me alive and I _did not_ , Sers. Because, for the release and survival of Lord Rickard Stark and his son, Aerys was asked to step down from the throne and did not honour the vow.”

He levelled each of the men with a hard stare. “It is for those reasons I was proclaimed King. But I will not have disloyal and disgruntled Kingsguards guarding my back. So, go find Rhaegar, Ser Selmy. I have no quarrel with you should you do so. Nor do I quarrel with Rhaegar – unless he wants the throne.” He gave the men a sharp, wolfish smile. It wasn’t nice. “If he wants it, he’ll learn just how sharp my teeth are.”

“And the Queen and Princess?” asked Lewyn, speaking up for the first time.

Jon turned to face the older man. “Free to go wherever they wish. They are no hostages of mine.”

Lewyn turned to his niece for confirmation.

“’Tis true, uncle,” Elia said softly, bouncing a now cooing Aegon on her knee. “His Grace has offered me to stay, to return to Dorne, or wherever else I wish. I am no hostage and I believe him. Nor are my children to be his hostages or wards when they are older.”

There was a terse silence as the knights looked at Jon, at Elia, and then at one another. Finally, Lewyn nodded and said, “Good enough for me! I shall stay.”

“Lewyn…?” Darry stared at him.

With eyes on him, Lewyn Martell withdrew his sword and fell to a knee in front of Jon. “By the Faith, I will be to Jon—” Lewyn stopped, soundlessly trying to figure out Jon’s surname. Was he a Blackfyre? A Targaryen?

“Targaryen, if you’d like, Ser Lewyn,” answered Jon quietly. “My parents were married, and my father was a trueborn Targaryen. Though I do not have a Targaryen first name, so Jon will suffice there for now. Perhaps I’ll take a new name upon my coronation.”

Selmy’s mouth dropped open and Darry stiffened in shock.

“And if that does not please you, you can use ‘Stark’, for that was my mother’s House,” finished Jon.

Lewyn nodded, slowly, continuing his oath. “—Jon Targaryen, the first of his name, faithful and true, and love all that he loves, and shun all that he shuns, and never, by will nor by force, by word nor by work, do ought of what is loathful to him. This I so swear by the Warrior, the Father, the Mother, the Maiden, the Crone, the Smith, and the Stranger, from now and always, I am his shield and sword, from this day forth.”

Overcome, Jon rallied himself and cleared his throat. “I… my thanks, Ser Lewyn. Arise, and serve.”

Lewyn did so in a smooth move and then moved to his niece, bending to greet and tickle Aegon’s chin as the baby created a spit bubble. He deftly ignored the stunned looks on Jonothor Darry and Barristan Selmy’s faces as he did so.

Selmy seemed to be wrestling with himself, so Jon left the man to it. But Darry’s face was red. He shook his head and spat, “I will not be party to such a mockery of our order. We do not simply trade kings – the kingsguard is for life!”

He stared in disgust at Lewyn, who looked unconcerned. Barristan kept his eyes down and forward, a furrow between his brows. The man glanced at Jaime, but the youngest member of the kingsguard blushed and lowered his head, indicating where he stood.

With a sneer, Darry stalked toward the door and stopped at the threshold. “Selmy, are you coming?”

For a moment, Jon watched as Barristan the Bold wavered, looking at the door and Jonothor Darry, and then back to Lewyn Martell and Jaime Lannister. He was torn – Jon could see it.

“You don’t have to stay if you do not wish it,” he urged softly, so Barristan heard him. The older knight’s clear blue eyes caught his. “You’re a good man, Ser Barristan. If your honour dictates that you serve Rhaegar, then you should go. You do have a choice to remain here, as well, should you wish it. I would be honoured to have you be part of the kingsguard.”

“I—” Barristan glanced at Darry once more, but the other man saw something in his brother’s face and snorted.

“I see how it is,” the man huffed. “So be it. You are no brothers of mine.”

Barristan’s shoulders slumped, the tiniest, as Jonothor Darry swept out of the room with a swirl of his white cloak.

There was silence, as even Rhaenys’ giggles had realized that now wasn’t the right time for it. Jon stepped up to Selmy and put a hand on his shoulder. “Truly – you should go if this isn’t what you want. Now, later – I would understand.”

Barristan threw his shoulders back and stood straight, peering at Jon. “No, Your Grace. Ser Jon was right – the Kingsguard is for life and I believe in it. I shall stay, and give my oath now, should you take it.”

Jon’s face softened and he nodded as Barristan knelt. “Arise, Ser Barristan. I thank you for your service. And, Barristan?”

The older knight looked up at Jon.

“I would name you Lord Commander, should you want it,” finished Jon quietly. “I could think of no other better suited.”

Barristan blinked rapidly. “Your Grace. I would be honoured.”

Jon exhaled. One less thing to worry about.

* * *

Two months later, Jon thought he was finally getting a hang of ruling Westeros. Rhaella was a godsend, helping Jon handle the court and what he needed to know before his upcoming coronation. Rickard was an administrative genius, helping Jon with his ravens and proclamations, and between the Kingsguard, Elia, and, surprisingly, Brandon Stark, he was able to make connections with the small folk in King’s Landing and get a feel for the time and its culture.

It was during one of those meetings, in which Rhaella was reminding him to meet with Aerys’ small council and either re-establish or dismantle it, that Lewyn’s panicked voice and the sound of his sword and Barristan’s reached those inside the suite.

“Stay back! Remove yourselves at once!” shouted Barristan.

Those in the room look up in confusion. Voices drew closer, punctuated by… barks?

“—my father,” finished a male voice.

“So, step aside, Sers,” added Sansa’s voice.

Jon leapt to his feet, even as a wide-eyed Lewyn opened the door. “Your Grace, your sister is here…? Along with Lord Stark’s son, Eddard. And…”

He looked back, paling.

But Jon didn’t care. “Sansa! You’re here!”

Sansa was in Jon’s arms, hugging him tightly. “Of course, I am. Now, tell me _everything_.”

Ned was behind her, slightly dishevelled, but smoothing his tunic even as his eyes sought his father and brother, relief on his face at seeing them well.

But before Jon could speak, Jaime shouted in alarm, his own sword ringing as he unsheathed it. “Good _Gods_ what are those beasts?!”

 _Beasts?_ thought Jon, turning. There was the sound of soft paws pattering on the flooring, and then Jon dropped to his knees as a ball of warm, white fluff was in his face, a rough tongue rasping against his cheeks with stinky breath. “Ghost!”

It was like they had never gone to the past: the connection between him and Ghost opened in their minds, and it was like everything was suddenly _brighter_ and _better_. His direwolf was here!

Jon glanced up, seeing Sansa standing beside him, pleased and preening even with her sable wolf beside her, Lady observing her littermates with a calm air.

“Lady?” gapped Jon, glancing between his sister and her wolf.

Sansa nodded. “And others.”

“Others…?” Jon turned, mouth open.

Ned had a wolf on his heels, one he couldn’t seem to be rid of; it was Grey Wind – Jon knew that wolf. But there were others: Shaggydog, Nymeria – and two other, massive adult direwolves that had Rhaella paling milk-white and moving to put the giant table between her and them.

The black, wild beast that was once Rickon’s went straight to Brandon, yipping for attention and then, when the eldest Stark gave the wolf some tentative pats on his head, turned to begin chewing on the side of the chair. Brandon snorted.

“Where’s Summer?”

“ _Snowflake_ ,” stressed Sansa, with an amused quirk of her lips with the renaming of Bran's old wolf, “remains in Winterfell with Benjen.”

“A-are these…” Rickard gulped. “Are these _direwolves,_ Sansa?”

She nodded, even as the male, the father of the litter, prowled to Rickard. The wolf was giant, his eyes nearly level with the Stark. There was a silent staring contest, and then the direwolf huffed and flopped heavily onto his side, tongue lolling.

“And that one is yours,” said Sansa primly. “I suggest you name him wisely.”

“And the bitch?” asked Brandon eagerly, looking up from where Shaggydog was playfully growling and tugging at a cushion Brandon was using for a toy.

“I’d imagine your sisters since the other grey one is Nymeria and Arya’s,” said Jon with a laugh. “Gods, Sansa! Where did you find them?”

“The Wolfswood,” she replied.

Lewyn snorted, putting his sword away. “Wolves in a Wolfswood, of course.”

“Are they dangerous?” asked Barristan, eyeing them.

“Absolutely,” replied Jon, even as Sansa said, “They’re sweethearts.”

The two looked at each other and then went to address Barristan, again.

“They’re really docile,” said Jon, changing his tune.

“They’ll rip your throats out,” stated Sansa, causing her to pause and stare at Jon.

Jaime Lannister laughed. “Well, will they harm us or the King?”

“Do you plan on harming the King?” asked Brandon, looking up with narrowed eyes.

Jaime shook his head.

“Then I think we’re all fine,” replied Jon with a grin.

* * *

If the kingsguard thought that was the only upset that day, they received another a few hours later, during dinner.

Jon wanted his Stark family together, in his private rooms: Rickard, Brandon, Ned, and Sansa with Barristan inside and Jaime outside the room. They were in the middle of their meal at the table, with Ned and Sansa explaining how things were at Winterfell when from the corner of the room, Arya peeled away from the wall and made her way to a free seat next to Sansa.

Ned, in the middle of speaking, stopped and gaped at her. His eyes darted at the wall, and then Arya, and then back.

Barristan startled and sputtered, “But – what – how--?”

Arya ignored them both, as well as Jon and Sansa’s grins. She reached for a bread roll and began cutting into it. Nonchalantly, she called, “Well, aren’t you joining us?”

“Joining…?” Barristan muttered, looking at the youngest Stark in the room, only to then shout in surprise when Lyanna Stark trudged from the same dark corner, arms crossed and a very sullen look on her face.

“But—” sputtered Ned, eyes locked on Lyanna as she sat next to Brandon. “How – How did you…?”

Arya grinned, teeth sharp, at Ned, and although she addressed the table, her eyes were on Lyanna when she practically sang, “ _Secret tunnel_.”

Barristan stiffened, eyes back on the wall. There was a secret tunnel there? Jon could see him thinking of ways to address the clear security issue that the Keep suddenly made clear.

Lyanna sitting seemed to be the signal for Brandon and Ned, though, because questions and accusations rang quick and true from their mouths, their volume increasing until there was nothing but a cacophony of noise in the room, with Arya amidst it all, calmly buttering her roll.

“Where were you?”

“Why did you leave?”

“ _How_ could you leave? Without a note?”

“There was a note – I’m not stupid!”

“But running away!! How dare you—”

“ _Dare I?_ Am I some wilting southern flower—”

“—know how worried we were? What _I_ did for you?”

“I never asked you to! I was happy!”

“—the family honour—”

“—Robert—”

“ _A fucking pox on Robert Baratheon_!”

The three Stark siblings rose from the table, lobbying their words like daggers at one another, grey eyes blazing like liquid mercury with flushed cheeks and pulled back lips that mimicked wolf snarls.

Their wolves though, or at least Ned and Brandon’s, only popped their heads up to watch the three with their gestures and words, and then put their heads down again, resting on their paws. Their mother, the large she-wolf, made a large, loud tooth-filled yawned and then absently closed her mouth behind Shaggydog’s neck to pull the pup to her for a clean.

Somehow, the three siblings moved from the table to the free space in the sitting area, and then toward the bedroom where Brandon was recovering; Lyanna stormed there first, slamming the door hard behind her.

“Oh, no you _don’t_ , Lyanna Stark!” shouted Brandon, crossing the distance quickly despite the gasps he was making, throwing the door open after her and stepping into the room.

Ned quickly followed, wringing his hands behind his siblings.

At the table, Jon, Rickard, and Sansa shared incredulous looks. Arya briefly looked up at the newly closed door and sighed. “Gosh. Were _we_ ever like that?”

“No,” said Jon, just as Sansa said, “Absolutely.”

The two eyed one another.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at her siblings, across the table from her. “Did _she_ ever sling mud at you when you were wearing your favourite dress in front of father’s bannermen?”

Jon paused, then conceded. “Fair point.”

Arya rolled her eyes and muttered, “I hate you both.”

Jon grinned, reaching out across the table to ruffle Arya’s hair – despite their ages – and mocked her, “ _Aww_ , not feeling the sibling love, little sister?”

Rickard, who had been sitting there, mortified, that his children would act that way in front of their new king, as well as a kingsguard, slowly came back to awareness when Jon ruffled Arya’s hair. Although he had many questions – how _did_ Arya get Lyanna? Where had his daughter been? How did she _know_? Where did they travel and how safe were they? – they were all immediately shoved to the back of his mind at the sight of Jon’s grin.

His eyes were wide, fixated on the young man. He hadn’t been sure, but –

The black hair. The curls. The pale face, calling him grandfather and despite him and the youngest girl looking alike – The curve of his lips, the fullness to them; the crinkle in his eyes, how dark they were, not quite grey but perhaps, a shade of indigo?

Lyanna’s smiling face looked back at him, and Rickard felt like it was a punch to his gut. The knowledge – the truth – that whatever alternate future these grandchildren of his came from: the truth was Lyanna never returned to Winterfell. That she married Rhaegar Targaryen. That they had a child – _a prince_ – who was now on the throne, regardless.

 _My grandchildren,_ thought Rickard, eyes roving over them proudly but with concern. Jon was king now, yes – but the Long Night was approaching, and they would need all the help they could get.

And Rickard swore he’d do whatever it took.

* * *

{TBC...}


	7. DRAGONS, pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Rhaegar.  
> Then -  
> Exit, stage left, pursued by delusions of grandeur and prophecy...

The Road to Victory

DRAGONS, pt 1

* * *

Rhaegar enjoyed dressing up in dirty clothes, hiding his gleaming white-blond hair under a wig or hood, and sit in the corner of a dark pub or inn and play his harp for the public. It was his way of getting a feel for the small folk in King’s Landing, and the best place to get the goss.

It served him well when he only had Arthur at his side for years, then later Myles and Richard, and it would serve him well again now, as he snuck back into King’s Landing to discover just _what_ Jon Connington had meant when he said his father was dead in the raven he sent to House Dayne.

Since Rhaegar was a creature of habit, he went to his usual inn and met Jon in the room above the stable, as he normally did. His friend was already there, pacing aggressively enough to wear a hole in the thin planks.

“Jon.”

The redhead whipped around, eyes wide. “My Prince!” he bowed low and with a flourish.

“Please, speak,” implored Rhaegar, striding up to him and bringing him up from his bow. “What’s this about my father’s death? Tell me the truth – _please_ – is he truly dead?”

Jon nodded. “Truly. I was there when it happened.”

“ _What_ happened?” asked Rhaegar, and the two wandered toward a few upturned crates and barrels to sit.

Jon’s face darkened. “Those Northern _heathens_ happened, my Prince. The eldest – Brandon – he came to King’s Landing over a moon ago, now, shouting at anyone who would look at him how you stole his sister. Called _you_ , of all people, a kidnapper and rapist. The gall!”

Rhaegar schooled his face and did his best not to shift or squirm where he sat. He certainly did not _rape_ Lyanna, but by definition, he had kidnapped her…

“Well, of course, your father wouldn’t hear nonsense like that, despite his feelings toward you, uh…” Jon trailed off, shooting Rhaegar a panicked look.

The prince just waved and hand and leaned forward to look at Jon intently. The redhead broke out in a tiny sweat and flushed.

He continued, “Uh, yes, well. The Northern heathen, his father Rickard Stark, arrived nearly a fortnight later, with a squire. Looked just like him – must be a bastard, we all thought when summoned to court. He had these… these _outrageous_ claims, my Prince!”

Rhaegar’s eyes narrowed. “What claims?”

“That the king give up his claim to the throne, and you and Prince Viserys as well! To release all the Northerners in the black cells, and to return his daughter and walk away free and unmolested,” rattled off Jon promptly.

_No._

Rhaegar’s breath was stolen. No. Surely his father _didn’t_ – did not hate him that much –

Jon kept talking and Rhaegar barely heard – something of a trial by combat against _fire_ and the squire surviving (!! There was wordless panic clawing its way up Rhaegar’s chest the more Jon spoke), of beating Ser Jaime in single combat, and killing Gerold Hightower – _poor Gerold_! – only to demand, by winning thrice over, his father stepping down…

… only for the man to literally step down the dais and fall on the man’s sword. _Murder_ , Jon called it. But Rhaegar knew the truth: accident. Fortuitous. The will of the gods.

 _How had it gone so wrong, so quick?_ he wondered, only to start when Jon finished: “And your mother, the Queen, proclaimed the squire, this – this – _bastard_ Blackfyre, Jon Snow – the king!”

_She what now?_

“I’m sorry, what?” Rhaegar’s blinked a few times at Jon, forgoing the need to reach up and wriggle a finger in his ear. “I must have let my thoughts consume me, my friend. Surely I heard you wrong.”

Jon’s face was sufficed with heat. “No! No, my Prince! The Queen sank to her knees and called him ‘king’!”

He stared at Jon.

Jon stared back, biting his lower lip nervously.

“Surely not,” Rhaegar finally laughed, weakly.

Jon nodded, silently.

“Mother would not – mother would _never_ –” Rhaegar stopped himself, feeling the panic tighten around his throat. He stood abruptly from the crate, sending it scooting back and Jon hastily leapt to his feet as well, wringing his hands in front of him and looking up at Rhaegar with fear.

“My Prince,” the man whispered, “My apologies – I did not wish to hurt you – I should not have –”

“Quiet!” snapped Rhaegar.

Jon snapped his mouth shut, eyes wide.

Swallowing, Rhaegar plastered a smile on his face and summoned his patience from numerous dealings with his father and court. “My apologies, Jon. My dear friend, I am sorry for snapping at you. The news… it distresses me.”

“Of course,” whispered Jon.

Rhaegar began to pace, mimicking Jon’s movements from when he arrived. “I must learn what people are saying.” He looked up. “Are Myles and Richard here?”

“Ser Myles is,” said Jon, carefully hiding his jealousy. “But Ser Richard returned to Lonmouth.”

“Remain in the Red Keep, for now, my friend,” instructed Rhaegar. “Contact Myles. Listen and observe. I will go do the same on the streets. I must learn about this Blackfyre and what hold he has over my wife and mother.”

“My Prince…” Jon nearly whimpered, “The Dowager Queen – the Princess – even the Kingsguard—”

Pain shot across Rhaegar’s face. “No. I cannot believe it.”

Jon stared at him.

“A fortnight, Jon,” said Rhaegar quietly. “Two weeks. I shall listen on the streets and then return, and I will know what to do next to save my wife and mother from a heartless Blackfyre fiend.”

Wariness in Jon’s eyes stopped Rhaegar from saying anything else, but he nodded, and Rhaegar flipped his hood back up. He had some spying to do.

* * *

“’e’s organized food for us folk in Flea Bottom! The Good King Jon thinking about us smallfolk!” The man who cried the first words was a teary-eyed father, his busty wife holding onto two toddling babes in her arms and two others at her skirt at his side, nodding along frantically.

The man continued, clutching a bag of food, “Bless him! The Seven bless him, Good King Jon!”

*

An old man, smoking a pipe, leaned forward on a barrel at the docks, surrounded by sailors with salt-crusted hair and weather skin. “He’s a dutiful King, his Grace is, praying weekly at them trees.”

“But not the Sept?” one asked as he passed, carrying a crate of vegetables.

The old man spat. “Don’t rightly care which of them gods he prays to, long as he keeps the peace and is a good man. The Gods are the Gods.”

*

“He dotes on the Princess and Prince! Can you believe it? The new king is still so kind to the old princess and her children! Even _plays_ with them if Ser Lewyn is to be believed! How sweet!” A lady in fine silks gushed in front of her friends, all ladies from the Keep, as they promenaded around the nicer areas around the Sept of Baelor.

“He’ll make a wonderful father one day,” sighed the other girl.

The first giggled. “He’d have to find himself a Queen. Fancy the job, Alyce?”

*

“He trains with the squires in the yard!” one young boy whispered excitedly to the others playing on the cobblestones. He shook the die in his hand and let them fly. “Teaches them well and offers them pointers and tips.”

“Claim they want to be just like King Jon when they grow up,” another boy added, nodding.

“Already pledging to his Kingsguard, eh?” an older man asked, leaning over the boys playing. “Can’t say I blame any of yeh – with a king like him, I’d do the same, too!”

*

“He’s just so _handsome_!” gushed one lady.

“And kind!” added a blonde.

“And eloquent!” simpered a brunette.

The first fanned herself with a hand. “Have you seen his _muscles_? Oh, I’m going to swoon.”

“And those eyes – Darla, I think I might _die_ if he looks at me!” the blonde sighed, teetering on the spot. The girls all shrieked with laughter that descended into giggles.

*

“Went to read to the orphans in Flea Bottom the other week with ‘is sister, the elder Stark girl,” a man in the pub whispered.

The other man across from him gasped. “Not that wild one that ran off with Rhaegar?”

“No, no, the one kissed by fire – Princess Sansa.”

“She’s no princess, just a lady!” The second man had rolled his eyes.

“She’s as good as, ‘is sister. And so kind and good with the people. Another Queen Alysanne, I reckon she could be.”

There was a contemplative silence between the two for a moment, and then the second tentatively asked, “But she won’t marry him, will she? I’ve enough of dragons marrying dragons.”

“Gods, no!” the first laughed, putting down his ale. “There’s rumours in the Keep ‘e’s looking at making ‘er a match, and ‘onouring Lord Stark’s previous ones with ‘is children.”

“Guess Lord Baratheon’s going to get a dragon’s sloppy seconds…” the second snickered.

*

The worst was when he used the secret passages to enter the Red Keep and heard the people he grew up alongside speaking of this new Targaryen. A guard and a kitchen maid passed by, completely missing him in the dark.

“The old Queen dotes on him, have you heard?” the maid whispered, leaning forward and fluttering her eyelashes at the guard.

“No! Queen _Rhaella_?”

“Are there any other Queens, you dolt?”

“But how does she like the new King?” the guard asked, frowning.

“Took him under her dragon wing, so to speak. Threw all her weight behind him.”

“By the Seven! She must _really_ have wanted the Mad King dead, then.”

They both laughed.

“And probably get her hands on a sane prince she could crown king,” laughed the maid.

“Don’t blame her with that, given how the Silver Prince went all crazy, kidnapping that Lord’s daughter,” commented the guard candidly.

The maid sniggered. “Can you imagine? Being such a disappointment that your own _mother_ prefers a random Blackfyre over you?”

*

 _Gods,_ thought Rhaegar in annoyance, _Does_ everyone _like this Jon fellow? What else has he got going for him? Does he shit sunshine and spew unicorns?_

*

“—Has a direwolf! Can you believe it?” gasped a girl on the street, running by with her friends.

“A what now?” shouted a man at a cabbage stall.

“A direwolf! A legendary beast from the North! Just like all the other Starks in the Red Keep!” one of the children screamed, running by toward the Keep, as though the man himself was going to appear and give pony rides on his pet.

“That’s their sigil, ain’t it?” the man at the stall asked, turning to the fabric stall next to him.

“Yes – and the kings of old had them at their sides, those beasts.”

The cabbage man frowned. “So, he’s a Stark and a Targaryen?”

“A double king! A king of the First Men and the New! It’s a sign from the Gods themselves!” The fabric stall owner cried in delight.

“I’ll believe when he’s got a dragon, Meryl, you’re being daft. Cease your prattling. Those dyes have gone to your head.” The cabbage man stared at the fabric stall owner in such disappointment that the fabric stall owner hunched over, and neither spoke of the new king again.

* * *

Two weeks. He spent two weeks combing King’s Landing from Flea Bottom to the Red Keep and the Maidenvault, to the Sept of Baelor, to Visenya’s Hill, and all he heard was how _good_ , how _wonderful_ , how _princely_ , the new Blackfyre king-to-be was.

The people were calling him a King already and he had yet to be crowned!

Rhaegar gnashed his teeth together and drew his hood lower over his brow to hide his distinct silver hair. It seemed like he was entirely forgotten! All the work he had done for the people – the coin he gave out, the lords he courted, and the ladies he serenaded with his songs. The newest thing in King’s Landing appeared and he was yesterday’s trash.

How could it have gone so wrong?

Where did he go so wrong? Surely Elia was in his corner – there had been little talk of her, despite the clench his heart gave when he heard about the Blackfyre being around his children.

Rhaenys. Aegon. Gods, he needed them. And he needed Lyanna Stark. Those men had mentioned Baratheon – his cousin. Had something happened to Lyanna at the Tower? He _needed_ his Visenya.

“I must return to her,” he whispered, hands shaking.

“You say somethin’ mate?” loudly belched a man ambling past him, turning to look curiously.

Rhaegar pressed his lips together and shook his head, quickly hurrying past the man. He had left his horse with Jon, and now he knew his next move: back to Dorne and his faithful Kingsguard. There was nothing he could do now or here against this Blackfyre, not with the support he had. He would return though and show them all how wrong they were.

He would.

* * *

Much to his surprise, Rhaegar spotted two familiar men in white cloaks – barely managing to hide them, too – south of the Roseroad. He drew his horse up sharply, staring at Oswell and Arthur as they cantered their horses and then drew to a stop near him.

Rhaegar’s eyes flitted between the two. “Where’s Lyanna?”

Oswell and Arthur shared a pained look. Finally, Arthur said, his face carved from granite, “She was taken.”

Rhaegar’s heart dropped near his stomach. “How? _When_? By whom?”

“She was spirited away a few days after you had left, my Prince,” began Arthur, something off in his tone, in the stiff way he held himself on the horse. “By a girl who looked like her.”

Oswell snorted. “Girl, ha! It was a faceless man, I’d swear it.”

“How?” Rhaegar tried hard not to wail or bring his hands up to clutch at his hair. Instead, he clenched them hard against the reins. “How could a faceless man find us and then spirit my ladylove?”

Oswell glanced at Arthur, looking to see if he’d speak. Rhaegar turned to his best friend, his closest confidante, and waited. Arthur’s eyes flickered up at Rhaegar and then away, his jaw tightening. “I don’t want to speak about it.”

“Ser Arthur!” snapped Rhaegar, frowning. Under him, his horse reacted to his growing annoyance and whinnied, digging at the ground and forcing Rhaegar to wheel his horse around. “How was she taken?”

“I don’t wish to speak of it, my Prince,” Arthur gritted out, sounding very pained.

“It really… it really wasn’t honourable,” Oswell tried to add, inching a bit closer to the two men.

Rhaegar spat out a swear, wheeling his horse around so the two Kingsguard could not see him. Thoughts furiously flew. Lyanna had only been a few days behind him! There was a good chance that his faceless man had snuck his Northern Queen of Love and Beauty right past him on the Roseroad and he didn’t even _notice_.

The words the two men spoke in King’s Landing took on a new meaning. His heart began to pound furiously in his chest. If he didn’t have his bride of ice – then what did it mean for him as the Prince…?

Rhaegar turned his horse to face his two most loyal men. “She is lost to me now. I cannot risk finding her in King’s Landing and taking her, not with the Blackfyre there.”

Oswell’s eyes bulged. _“Blackfyre?”_

Arthur’s frown deepened. “What do we do now, my Prince?”

Rhaegar’s eyes darted around, taking in the farmland on one side and the distant seat of house Merryweather, Longtable. The Kingswood was even further, but to the east, the mountains and…

“I must think on this,” announced Rhaegar grimly. “We must plan our next move carefully, sers. Let us retire to Summerhall.”

“Summerhall?” echoed Arthur carefully, even as Rhaegar nudged his horse and the two Kingsguard did the same to their steeds.

Rhaegar nodded, looking off into the distance. “Yes… there is someone there I must speak with… a certain lady who will not guide me wrong.”

* * *

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a head's up - ships will be coming up and appearing in the next chapter with a discussion of marriage, so I'll be updating the tags accordingly then. I'll understand if these ships aren't to people's liking, and write this as a reminder that although this is character-driven, romance isn't a main part of the story. :)


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